there was, somehow, in her life at the Magwires' something that made
her great far-away eyes grow larger and her poor little wrists more
weak and slender.
She envied the Magwire twins--with all their prickly heat and their
calico-blue eyes--when their mother pressed them lovingly to her bosom.
She even envied the black babies when their great black mammies crooned
them to sleep.
What does it matter, black or white or red, if one is loved?
An embroidered "Darling" upon an old crib-blanket, and a
daguerreotype--a slender youth beside a pale, girlish woman, who clasped
a big-eyed babe--these were her only tokens of past affection.
There was something within her that responded to the daintiness of the
loving stitches in the old blanket--and to a something in the refined
faces in the picture. And they had called their wee daughter "Idyl"--a
little poem.
Yet she, not understanding, hated this name because of Mrs. Magwire,
whose most merciless taunt was, "Sure ye're well named, ye idle
dthreamer."
Mrs. Magwire, a well-meaning woman withal, measured her maternal
kindnesses to the hungry-hearted orphan beneath her roof in generous
bowls of milk and hunks of corn-bread.
Idyl's dreams of propitiating her were all of
abstractions--self-sacrifice, patience, gratitude.
And she was as unconscious as was her material benefactress that she was
an idealist, and why the combination resulted in inharmony.
This evening, as she stood alone upon the levee, listening to the
cannon, a sudden sense of utter desolation and loneliness came to her.
She only of all the plantation was unloved--forgotten--in this hour of
danger.
A desperate longing seized her as she turned and looked back upon the
nest of cabins. If she could only save the plantation! For love, no
sacrifice could be too great.
With the thought came an inspiration. There was reason in the women's
fears. Should the Riffraffs fire upon the fleet, surely guns would
answer, else what was war?
She glanced at her full pail, and then at the row of cannon beside her.
If she could pour water into them! It was too light yet, but to-night--
How great and daring a deed to come to tempt the mind of a timid,
delicate child who had never dared anything--even Mrs. Magwire's
displeasure!
All during the evening, while Mother Magwire rocked the babies, moaning
and weeping, Idyl, wiping her dishes in the little kitchen, would step
to the door and peer out at the levee where the guns were. Every distant
cannon's roar seemed to challenge her to the deed.
When finally her work was done, she slipped noiselessly out and started
towards the levee, pail in hand; but as she approached it she saw moving
shadows.
The Riffraffs were working at the guns. Seeing her project impossible,
she sat down in a dark shadow by the roadside--studied the moving
figures--listened to the guns which came nearer as the hours passed.
It was long after midnight; accelerated firing was proclaiming a crisis
in the battle, when, suddenly, there came the rattle of approaching
wheels accompanied by a noisy rabble. Then a woman screamed.
Captain Doc was coming with a wagon-load of ammunition. The guns were to
be loaded.
The moon, a faint waning crescent, faded to a filmy line as a pillar of
fire, rising against the sky northward towards the city, exceeded the
glare of the battle below.
The darkness was quite lifted now, up and down the levee, and Idyl,
standing in the shadow, could see groups of people weeping, wringing
their hands, as Captain Doc, pompon triumphant, came in sight galloping
down the road.
In a second more he would pass the spot where she stood--stood unseen,
seeing the sorrow of the people, heeding the challenge of the guns. The
wagon was at hand.
With a faint, childish scream, raising her thin arms heavenward, she
plunged forward and fell headlong in its path.
The victory was hers.
The tinselled captain was now tender surgeon, doctor, friend.
In his own arms he raised the limp little form from beneath the wheel,
while the shabby gray coats of a dozen "Riffraffs," laid over the
cannon-balls in the wagon, made her a hero's bed; and Captain Doc,
seizing the reins, turned the horses cautiously, and drove in haste back
to his drug-store.
Farragut's fleet and "the honor of the Riffraffs" were forgotten in the
presence of this frail embodiment of death.
Upon his own bed beside an open window he laid her, and while his eager
company became surgeon's assistants, he tenderly bound her wounds.
For several hours she lay in a stupor, and when she opened her eyes the
captain knelt beside her. Mrs. Magwire stood near, noisily weeping.
"Is it saved?" she asked, when at length she opened her eyes.
Captain Doc, thinking her mind was wandering, raised her head, and
pointed to the river, now ablaze with light.
"See," said he. "See the steamboats loaded with burning cotton, and the
great ship meeting them; that is a Yankee gunboat! See, it is passing."
"And you didn't shoot? And are the people glad?"
"No, we didn't shoot. You fell and got hurt at the dark turn by the
acacia bushes, where you hang your little lantern on dark nights. Some
one ought to have hung one for you to-night. How did it happen, child?"
"It didn't happen. I did it on purpose. I knew if I got hurt you would
stop and cure me, and not fire at the boats. I wanted to save--to save
the plan--"
While the little old man raised a glass to the child's lips his hand
shook, and something like a sob escaped him.
"Listen, little one," he whispered, while his lips quivered. "I am an
old fool, but not a fiend--not a devil. Not a gun would have fired. I
wet all the powder. I didn't want anybody to say the Riffraffs flinched
at the last minute. But you--oh, my God!" His voice sank even lower.
"You have given your young life for my folly."
She understood.
"I haven't got any pain--only--I can't move. I thought I'd get hurt
worse than I am--and not so much. I feel as if I were going up--and
up--through the red--into the blue. And the moon is coming sideways to
me. And her face--it is in it--just like the picture." She cast her eyes
about the room as if half conscious of her surroundings. "Will
they--will they love me now?"
Mrs. Magwire, sobbing aloud, fell upon her knees beside the bed.
"God love her, the heavenly child!" she wailed. "She was niver intinded
for this worrld. Sure, an' I love ye, darlint, jist the same as Mary Ann
an' Kitty--an' betther, too, to make up the loss of yer own mother, God
rest her."
Great tears rolled down the cheeks of the dying child, and that heavenly
light which seems a forecast of things unseen shone from her brilliant
eyes.
She laid her thin hand upon Mrs. Magwire's head, buried now upon the bed
beside her.
"Lay the little blanket on me, please--when I go--"
She turned her eyes upon the sky.
"She worked it for me--the 'Darling' on it. The moon is coming
again--sideways. It is her face."
So, through the red of the fiery sky, up into the blue, passed the pure
spirit of little Saint Idyl.
* * * * *
The river seemed afire now with floating chariots of flame.
Slowly, majestically, upward into this fiery sea rode the fleet.
Although many of the negroes had run frightened into the woods, the
conflagration revealed an almost unbroken line on either side of the
river, watching the spectacular pageant with awe-stricken, ashy faces.
At Bijou a line of men--not the Riffraffs--sat astride the cannon, over
the mouths of which they hung their hats or coats.
"I tell yer deze heah Yankees mus' be monst'ous-sized men. Look at de
big eye-holes 'longside o' de ship," said one--a young black fellow.
"Eye-holes!" retorted an old man sitting apart; "dem ain't no eye-holes,
chillen. Dey gun-holes! Dat what dey is! An' ef you don't keep yo'
faces straight dey'll 'splode out on you 'fo' you know it."
The first speaker rolled backward down the levee, half a dozen
following. The old man sat unmoved. Presently a little woolly head
peered over the bank.
"What de name o' dat fust man-o'-war, gran'dad?"
"Name _Freedom_." The old man answered without moving. "Freedom comin'
wid guns in 'er mouf, ready to spit fire, I tell yer!"
"Jeems, heah, say all de no-'count niggers is gwine be sol' over
ag'in--is dat so, gran'dad?"
"Yas; every feller gwine be sol' ter 'isself. An' a mighty onery,
low-down marster heap ob 'em 'll git, too."
* * * * *
It was nearly day when Captain Doc, pale and haggard, joined the crowd
upon the levee.
As he stepped upon its brow, a woman, fearing the provocation of his
military hat, begged him to remove it.
It might provoke a volley.
Raising the hat, the captain turned and solemnly addressed the crowd:
"My countrymen," he began, and his voice trembled, "the Riffraffs are
disbanded. See!"
He threw the red-plumed thing far out upon the water. And then he turned
to them.
"I have just seen an angel pass--to enter--yonder." A sob closed his
throat as he pointed to the sky.
"Her pure blood is on my hands--and, by the help of God, they will shed
no more.
"These old guns are playthings--we are broken old men.
"Let us pray."
And there, out in the glare of the awful fiery spectacle, grown weird in
the faint white light of a rising sun, arose the voice of prayer--prayer
first for forgiveness of false pride and folly--for the women and
children--- for the end of the war--for lasting peace.
It was a scene to be remembered. Had anything been lacking in its awful
solemnity, it was supplied with a tender potency reaching all hearts, in
the knowledge of the dead child, who lay in the little cottage near.
From up and down the levee, as far as the voice had reached, came
fervent responses, "Amen!" and "Amen!"
Late in the morning the Riffraffs' artillery, all but their largest gun,
was, by the captain's command, dumped into the river.
This reserved cannon they planted, mouth upwards, by the roadside on
the site of the tragedy--a fitting memorial of the child-martyr.
It was Mrs. Magwire, who, remembering how Idyl had often stolen out and
hung a lantern at this dark turn of the "road bend," began thrusting a
pine torch into the cannon's mouth on dark nights as a slight memorial
of her. And those who noticed said she took her rosary there and said
her beads.
But Captain Doc had soon made the light his own special care, and until
his death, ten years later, the old man never failed to supply this
beacon to belated travellers on moonless nights.
After a time a large square lantern took the place of the torch of pine,
and grateful wayfarers alongshore, by rein or oar, guided or steered by
the glimmer of Saint Idyl's Light.
Last year the caving bank carried the rusty gun into the water. It is
well that time and its sweet symbol, the peace-loving river, should bury
forever from sight all record of a family feud half forgotten.
And yet, is it not meet that when the glorious tale of Farragut's
victory is told, the simple story of little Saint Idyl should sometimes
follow, as the tender benediction follows the triumphant chant?
"BLINK"
"BLINK"
I
It was nearly midnight of Christmas Eve on Oakland Plantation. In the
library of the great house a dim lamp burned, and here, in a big
arm-chair before a waning fire, Evelyn Bruce, a fair young girl, sat
earnestly talking to a withered old black woman, who sat on the rug at
her feet.
"An' yer say de plantatiom done sol', baby, an' we boun' ter move?"
"Yes, mammy, the old place must go."
"An' is de 'Onerble Mr. Citified buyed it, baby? I know he an' ole
marster sot up all endurin' las' night a-talkin' and a-figgurin'."
"Yes. Mr. Jacobs has closed the mortgage, and owns the place now."
"An' when is we gwine, baby?"
"The sooner the better. I wish the going were over."
"An' whar'bouts is we gwine, honey?"
"We will go to the city, mammy--to New Orleans. Something tells me that
father will never be able to attend to business again, and I am going to
work--to make money."
Mammy fell backward. "W-w-w-work! Y-y-you w-w-work! Wh-wh-why, baby,
what sort o' funny, cuyus way is you a-talkin', anyhow?"
"Many refined women are earning their living in the city, mammy."
"Is you a-talkin' sense, baby, ur is yer des a-bluffin'? Is yer axed yo'
pa yit?"
"I don't think father is well, mammy. He says that whatever I suggest we
will do, and I am _sure_ it is best. We will take a cheap little house,
father and I--"
"Y-y-you an' yo' pa! An' wh-wh-what 'bout me, baby?" Mammy would stammer
when she was excited.
"And you, mammy, of course."
"Umh! umh! umh! An' so we gwine ter trabble! An' de' Onerble Mr.
Citified done closed de morgans on us! Ef-ef I'd 'a' knowed it dis
mornin' when he was a-quizzifyin' me so sergacious, I b'lieve I'd o'
upped an' sassed 'im, I des couldn't 'a' helt in. I 'lowed he was
teckin' a mighty frien'ly intruss, axin' me do we-all's _puck_on-trees
bear big _puck_ons, an'--an' ef de well keep cool all summer, an'--an'
he ax me--he ax me--"
"What else did he ask you, mammy?"
"Scuze me namin' it ter yer, baby, but he ax me who was buried in we's
graves--he did fur a fac'. Yer reckon dee gwine claim de graves in de
morgans, baby?"
Mammy had crouched again at Evelyn's feet, and her eager brown face was
now almost against her knee.
"All the land is mortgaged, mammy."
"Don't yer reck'n he mought des nachelly scuze de graves out'n de
morgans, baby, ef yer ax 'im mannerly?"
"I'm afraid not, mammy, but after a while we may have them moved."
The old bronze clock on the mantel struck twelve.
"Des listen. De ole clock a-strikin' Chris'mas-gif now. Come 'long, go
ter bed, honey. You needs a res', but I ain' gwine sleep none, 'caze all
dis heah news what you been a-tellin' me, hit's gwine ter run roun' in
my head all night, same as a buzz-saw."
And so they passed out, mammy to her pallet in Evelyn's room, while the
sleepless girl stepped to her father's chamber.
Entering on tiptoe, she stood and looked upon his face. He slept as
peacefully as a babe. The anxious look of care which he had worn for
years had passed away, and the flickering fire revealed the ghost of a
smile upon his placid face. In this it was that Evelyn read the truth.
The crisis of effort for him was past. He might follow, but he would
lead no more.
Since the beginning of the war Colonel Brace's history had been the
oft-told tale of loss and disaster, and at the opening of each year
since there had been a flaring up of hope and expenditure, then a long
summer of wavering promise, followed by an inevitable winter of
disappointment.
The old colonel was, both by inheritance and the habit of many
successful years, a man of great affairs, and when the crash came he was
too old to change. When he bought, he bought heavily. He planted for
large results. There was nothing petty about him, not even his debts.
And now the end had come.
As Evelyn stood gazing upon his handsome, placid face her eyes were
blinded with tears. Falling upon her knees at his side, she engaged for
a moment in silent prayer, consecrating herself in love to the life
which lay before her, and as she rose she kissed his forehead gently,
and passed to her own room.
On the table at her bedside lay several piles of manuscript, and as
these attracted her, she turned her chair, and fell to work sorting them
into packages, which she laid carefully away.
Evelyn had always loved to scribble, but only within the last few years
had she thought of writing for money that she should need. She had
already sent several manuscripts to editors of magazines; but somehow,
like birds too young to leave the nest, they all found their way back to
her. With each failure, however, she had become more determined to
succeed, but in the meantime--_now_--she must earn a living. This was
not practicable here. In the city all things were possible, and to the
city she would go. She would at first accept one of the tempting
situations offered in the daily papers, improving her leisure by
attending lectures, studying, observing, cultivating herself in every
possible way, and after a time she would try her hand again at writing.
It was nearly day when she finally went to bed, but she was up early
next morning. There was much to be considered. Many things were to be
done.
At first she consulted her father about everything, but his invariable
answer, "Just as you say, daughter," transferred all responsibility to
her.
A letter to her mother's old New Orleans friend, Madame Le Duc, briefly
set forth the circumstances, and asked Madame's aid in securing a small
house. Other letters sent in other directions arranged various matters,
and Evelyn soon found herself in the vortex of a move. She had a wise,
clear head and a steady, resolute hand, and in old mammy a most capable
servant. The old woman seemed, indeed, to forget nothing, as she bustled
about, packing, suggesting, and, spite of herself, frequently
protesting; for, if the truth must be spoken, this move to the city was
violating all the traditions of mammy's life.
"Wh-wh-wh-why, baby! Not teck de grime-stone!" she exclaimed one day, in
reply to Evelyn's protest against her packing that ponderous article.
"How is we gwine sharpen de spade an' de grubbin'-hoe ter work in the
gyard'n?"
"We sha'n't have a garden, mammy."
"No gyard'n!" Mammy sat down upon the grindstone in disgust.
"Wh-wh-wh-what sort o' a fureign no-groun' place is we gwine ter,
anyhow, baby? Honey," she continued, in a troubled voice, "co'se you
know I ain't got educatiom, an' I ain't claim knowledge; b-b-b-but
ain't you better study on it good 'fo' we goes ter dis heah new country?
Dee tells me de cidy's a owdacious place. I been heern a heap o' tales,
but I 'ain't say nothin' Is yer done prayed over it good, baby?"
"Yes, dear. I have prayed that we should do only right. What have you
heard, mammy?"
"D-d-d-de way folks talks, look like death an' terror is des a-layin'
roun' loose in de cidy. Dee tell _me_ dat ef yer des nachelly blows out
yer light ter go ter bed, dat dis heah some'h'n' what stan' fur wick,
hit 'll des keep a-sizzin' an' a-sizzin' out, des like sperityal steam;
_an' hit's clair pizen_!"
"That is true, mammy. But, you see, we won't blow it out. We'll know
better."
"Does yer snuff it out wid snuffers, baby, ur des fling it on de flo'
an' tromp yer foots on it?"
"Neither, mammy. The gas comes in through pipes built into the houses,
and is turned on and off with a valve, somewhat as we let water out of
the refrigerator."
"Um-hm! Well done! Of co'se! On'y, in place o' water what _put out_ de
light, hit's in'ardly filled wid some'h'n' what _favor_ a blaze."
"Exactly."
Mammy reflected a moment. "But de grime-stone gotter stay berhime, is
she? An' is we gwine leave all de gyard'n tools an' implemers ter de
'Onerble Mr. Citified?"
"No, mammy; none of the appurtenances of the homestead are mortgaged. We
must sell them. We need money, you know."
"What is de impertinences o' de homestid, baby? You forgits I ain't
on'erstan' book words."
"Those things intended for family use, mammy. There are the
carriage-horses, the cows, the chickens--"
"Bless goodness fur dat! An' who gwine drive 'em inter de cidy fur us,
honey?"
"Oh, mammy, we must sell them all."
Mammy was almost crying. "An' what sort o' entry is we gwine meck inter
de cidy, honey--empty-handed, same as po' white trash? D-d-d-don't yer
reck'n we b-b-better teck de chickens, baby? Yo' ma thunk a heap o' dem
Brahma hens an' dem Clymoth Rockers--dee looks so courageous."
It was hard for Evelyn to refuse. Mammy loved everything on the old
place.
"Let us give up all these things now, mammy; and after a while, when I
grow rich and famous, I'll buy you all the chickens you want."
At last preparations were over. They were to start on the morrow. Mammy
had just returned from a last tour through out-buildings and gardens,
and was evidently disturbed.
"Honey," she began, throwing herself on the step at Evelyn's feet, "what
yer reck'n? Ole Muffly is a-sett'n' on fo'teen eggs, down in de
cotton-seed. W-w-we can't g'way f'm heah an' leave Muffly a-sett'n', hit
des nachelly can't be did. D-d-don't yer reck'n dee'd hol' back de
morgans a little, till Muffly git done sett'n'?"
It was the same old story. Mammy would never be ready to go.
"But our tickets are bought, mammy."
"An' like as not de 'Onerble Mr. Citified 'll shoo ole Muffly orf de
nes' an' spile de whole sett'n'. Tut! tut! tut!" And, groaning in
spirit, mammy walked off.
Evelyn had feared, for her father, the actual moment of leaving, and was
much relieved when, with his now habitual tranquillity, he smilingly
assisted both her and mammy into the sleeper. Instead of entering
himself, however, he hesitated.
"Isn't your mother coming, daughter?" he asked, looking backward.
"Or--oh, I forgot," he added, quickly. "She has gone on before, hasn't
she?"
"Yes, dear, she has gone before," Evelyn answered, hardly knowing what
she said, the chill of a new terror upon her.
What did this mean? Was it possible that she had read but half the
truth? Was her father's mind not only enfeebled, but going?
Mammy had not heard the question, and so Evelyn bore her anxiety alone,
and during the day her anxious eyes were often upon her father's face,
but he only smiled and kept silent.
They had been travelling all day, when suddenly, above the rumbling of
the train, a weak, bird-like chirp was heard, faint but distinct; and
presently it came again, a prolonged "p-e-e-p!"
Heads went up, inquiring faces peered up and down the coach, and fell
again to paper or book, when the cry came a third time, and again.
Mammy's face was a study. "'Sh--'sh--'sh! don' say nothin', baby," she
whispered, in Evelyn's ear; "but dis heah chicken in my bosom is
a-ticklin' me so I can't hardly set still."
Evelyn was absolutely speechless with surprise, as mammy continued by
snatches her whispered explanation:
"Des 'fo' we lef' I went 'n' lif' up ole Muffly ter see how de eggs was
comin' orn, an' dis heah egg was pipped out, an' de little risindenter
look like he eyed me so berseechin' I des nachelly couldn't leave 'im.
Look like he knowed he warn't righteously in de morgans, an' 'e crave
ter clair out an' trabble. I did hope speech wouldn't come ter 'im tell
we got off'n deze heah train kyars."
A halt at a station brought a momentary silence, and right here arose
again, clear and shrill, the chicken's cry.
Mammy was equal to the emergency. After glancing inquiringly up and down
the coach, she exclaimed, aloud, "Some'h'n' in dis heah kyar soun' des
like a vintrilloquer."
"That's just what it is," said an old gentleman opposite, peering around
over his spectacles. "And whoever you are, sir, you've been amusing
yourself for an hour."
Mammy's ruse had succeeded, and during the rest of the journey, although
the chicken developed duly as to vocal powers, the only question asked
by the curious was, "Who can the ventriloquist be?"
Evelyn could hardly maintain her self-control, the situation was so
utterly absurd.
"I does hope it's a pullet," mammy confided later; "but I doubts it. Hit
done struck out wid a mannish movemint a'ready. Muffly's eggs allus
hatches out sech invig'rous chickens. I gwine in the dressin'-room,
baby, an' wrop 'im up ag'in. Feel like he done kicked 'isse'f loose."
Though she made several trips to the dressing-room in the interest of
her hatchling, mammy's serene face held no betrayal of the disturbing
secret of her bosom.
At last the journey was over. The train crept with a tired motion into
the noisy depot. Then came a rattling ride over cobble-stones, granite,
and unpaved streets; a sudden halt before a low-browed cottage; a
smiling old lady stepping out to meet them; a slam of the front
door--they were at home in New Orleans.