MAMMY MAKES INVESTIGATIONS.
“Bress de Lord, we ain’t got ter run no counter on Thanksgiving Day!”
was Mammy’s fervent exclamation, as she rose from her bed on the Monday
preceding Thanksgiving Day. Hurrying across the room she opened the
draughts in the little stove, for Charles’ rheumatic twinges must not be
aggravated by the sudden chill of rising from a warm bed to dress in a
cold room. The fire had been carefully covered the night before, and
now, replenished by a few shovelfuls of coal, and a vigorous shake of
the revolving grate, was soon snapping and roaring right comfortably.
The rattling had served more than one end, as had the clatter made by
putting on the fresh fuel. Although Mammy had no idea of permitting her
spouse to contract a cold from dressing in a cold room, she, on the
other hand, saw no reason why he should indulge in over-many morning
winks after she, herself, had risen and begun the duties of the day.
“Eh? Um, yas, Honey,” came in somnolent tones from the billows of
feathers in which Charles’ shiny bald pate, with its fringe of snowy
wool, was nearly buried. Mammy could not abide the new-fangled hair
mattresses, but clung tenaciously to her bygone ideas of “real downright
comfort fer a body dat’s clar beat out when de day’s done. No, sir-ee!
Don’t talk ter me ob dese hyar ha’r mattresses. I ain’t got a mite er
use fer ’em needer has Charles, _if I ses-so_. Give me de suah ’nough
fedders wid de down on ’em; none ob yo’ hawse ha’r stuffed bags. De
fedders fits wherever dey teches, ’an snugs up mighty soft on de achy
spots, but dose highfalutin’ h’ar mattresses,—well, dey jest lak dese
hyar Norf folks we meet up wid: ef yo’ kin fit _dem_, well an’ good,
yo’s all right, but does yo’ t’ink dey’s gwine ter try fer ter fit yo’?
Go ’long, chile.”
Consequently the bed, which stood in the bedroom of the little cottage
in which Mammy and Charles lived, boasted a feather bed, the like of
which for downiness and size was rarely seen. It had been made by Mammy
herself of the downiest of feathers, plucked by her own hand from the
downiest of her own geese, hatched under her own critical eyes when she
was a young woman on her old master’s plantation. It had taken many
geese, many days, much drying and curing to achieve such a triumph; and
the “baid” was Mammy’s most cherished possession. The airings, sunnings,
beatings and renovatings to which it had been subjected during the years
she had owned it would have totally wrecked any less perfect article of
household economy; but it had survived all, and each morning, after its
prescribed hours of airing, was “spread up” into a most imposing mound,
covered with a “croshey” spread, made by the sanctified hands of “ol’
Miss” (Mrs. Carruth’s mother), and still further adorned by “piller
shams,” made by “Miss Jinny” herself.
More than one of Mrs. Carruth’s guests had been conducted through
Mammy’s cottage by its proud inmate, and the “baid” and its coverings
displayed with justifiable pride.
“Yas, wake up!” commanded Mammy, making her own toilet with despatch.
“We’s got a pile o’ wo’k ter do terday, an’ I’se gotter see dat dose no
count nigger gals what’s a-pertendin’ ter do Miss Jinny’s wo’k
now-a-days gits a move on ’em. Dey pesters me mightily, dough I ain’t
let ’em ’spect it, I tells yo’. Ef I did dey’d jes nachelly climb right
ober de house an’ ebery las’ pusson in it. But I knows how ter han’le
’em ef Miss Jinny don’t. She t’ink she gwine do it jes lak she useter
back yonder on her Pa’s plantation, but it don’ do up hyar. Trouble is
wid dese hyar Norf niggers dey ain’ know dey _is_ niggers, and dey gits
mighty mix in dey minds twell somebody come along and tells ’em jest
’zackly what dey is, an’ whar dey b’longs at. I done tol’ dem two in
yonder, an’ I reckon dey’s learnt a heap since I done took ’em in han’.
Yas, I does. Dey don’ come a-splurgin’ an’ a-splutterin’ roun’ me no mo’
wid dey, ‘Dis hyar ain’ ma juty. I ain’ ’gaged fer ter do dat wuk.’ My
Lawd! I come pretty nigh bustin’ dat Lilly May’s haid las’ week when I
tell her ter do sumpin’ an’ she say dat ter me. She foun’ out what her
juty was, an’ she ain’t fergit it again, I tell yo’. Now come ’long
down, Charles, I gwine have brekfus ready befo’ yo’ get yo’ wool
breshed,” and off hurried the old woman to begin the routine of her more
than busy day.
The clock was striking five when Charles came slowly down the stairs and
entered the immaculate kitchen. The past three years have dealt kindly
with the old couple in spite of their incessant labors. Mammy has not
changed in the least. Charles is a trifle more bent, perhaps, but the
three years have certainly not detracted from the old man’s appearance,
nor have they robbed him of any strength. Indeed, he seems in better
health and physical condition than upon the day he celebrated his golden
wedding. Mammy has made up for the lost years by caring for him as she
would have cared for a child.
The business which they started in the Arcade has flourished and
prospered beyond their wildest hopes. Charles still holds the honorary
position of “Janitor-in-Chief” at the Arcade, a sinecure in every sense
of the word excepting one; he keeps the acting janitor up to the high
mark in the performance of _his_ duties, greatly to Mr. Porter’s
amusement. He also keeps the dapper mulatto youth, who now serves at the
lunch counter headed due north. To that young man Charles is “Mr.
Devon,” of the firm of “Blairsdale & Devon.”
At the cottage Mammy still cooks, bakes, preserves and concocts with all
her wonderful skill, assisted by a little colored girl, the eldest of
those whom Jean impressed upon Mammy’s wedding day.
Oh, Mammy is a most important personage these days.
Breakfast over in the little cottage, and it was a breakfast fit for a
king, Mammy began issuing her orders like a general, and Charles lived
only to obey.
“Now hike in dar an’ git de furnace a-goin’ good, an’ den go ’long ter
de gre’t house an’ have it good an’ warm befo’ dem chillern wakes up. I
cyant have em’ ketchin’ cold, an’ de mawnin’s right snappy,” she said,
as dish-towel in hand she looked out of her kitchen door at the
glistening world, for a heavy hoar frost covered lawn and foliage,
prophesying a storm before many days.
“Here, put on yo’ coat! What’s de use ob my rubbin’ yo’ shoulder wid
linnimint ef yo’ gwine right spang out dis here warm kitchen inter de
chill ob de mawnin’ widout wroppin’ up? Laws-a-massy, it tek mos’ de
whole endurin’ time ter keep you from doin’ foolishnesses, I clar it
do.”
Charles chuckled delightedly. It was, on the whole, rather flattering to
be so cherished and looked after as he had been during the last three
years. Poor old soul, those he had spent alone had been barren enough of
care or comforts.
“You needn’t ter snort dat-a-way,” protested his dominating wife. “I’s
only jes’ a-watchin’ out fer my _own_ sake. I’se got a sight ter do
’sides nussin’ rheumatics an’ tekin’ keer sick folks wid a misery in dey
backs.”
“Honey, yo’s a wonder. Yas, yo’ _is_,” was Charles’ parting rejoinder,
as he toddled off to the duties, which to him, as well as to Mammy, were
labors of love. Before many minutes had passed the little candy kitchen
was snug and warm for its mistress, and then the old man made his way to
the “gre’t house,” as he and Mammy, true to earlier customs, always
called the home which sheltered their white folks. Mammy had already
finished her own household tasks and met him at the door. Together they
entered the silent house, their key making not the slightest sound, lest
they disturb the sleeping inmates. The maids now in Mrs. Carruth’s
service did not sleep in the house, but came at seven each morning, and
woe betide the tardy one! Mammy was always on hand, and her greeting was
governed by the moment of the said damsel’s arrival. There were a few
duties, however, which Mammy would permit no other than herself to
perform. She must see that the breakfast table was properly laid, the
breakfast under way and the rooms dusted, aired and warmed before she
stole softly upstairs to call her “chillern.” Then she turned all over
to her dusky satellites, and at once became grand high potentate and
autocrat.
It was a few minutes past seven when she entered Mrs. Carruth’s room
with a cheery “Mawnin’, honey. ’Spose ef I lets yo’ sleep any longer yo’
gwine give me sumpin’ I ain’t cravin’ fer ter git. Cyant fer de life er
me see why yo’ boun’ ter git up dese mawnin’s. Why won’ yo’ let me bring
up yo’ tray, honey?” said the good old soul, moving softly about the
room, raising the window shades and turning on the valve of the
radiator.
“Because I have all I can do as it is to keep you and the girls from
spoiling me completely,” returned Mrs. Carruth, as she rose from her bed
and stepped into the adjoining bathroom, where Mammy already had her
bath prepared.
“Well, it’s de biggest job we-all ever is tackled,” insisted the old
woman, as she placed a chair before the dressing table and took from the
closet the garments Mrs. Carruth would need for the day. Since sunnier
times had come to this home Mammy had fallen back into old habits. The
“chillern,” as she called Eleanor, Constance and Jean, were called
before their mother was awakened, but “Miss Jinny” claimed her undivided
attention, and it would have nearly broken Mammy’s loving old heart had
Mrs. Carruth denied her this privilege, so long made impossible by the
strenuous days and manifold duties following upon the misfortunes which
succeeded Mr. Carruth’s death.
The delight of Mammy’s life was to assist at her “Miss Jinny’s” toilet,
as she had done in her mistress’ girlhood days—to brush and arrange the
still abundant hair, and to hand her a fresh handkerchief and say, as
she had said to the young girl years ago:
“Gawd bless yo’, honey! Yo’ is as sweet as de roses dis mawnin’.”
When all was completed to her satisfaction, and Mrs. Carruth was about
to leave the room, Mammy remarked, with well-assumed indifference:
“I ’spose dat Lilly done got Miss Nonnie’s room all fix jes right, but I
reckons I better cas’ ma eyes ober it; cyant trus’ dese girls wid no
’sponserbility, nohow.”
“I think everything is in perfect order, Mammy, but I dare say you will
feel happier if you give those little touches which you alone can give.
Eleanor will recognize them and be happier because you gave them. It
will be a joy to us all to have her back again, won’t it, although she
has not been away so very long after all.”
“No’m, she ain’t. How long she gwine be wid us dis time?”
“Not quite a week, Mammy. She will reach here this afternoon and must
leave us early Saturday; Thanksgiving holidays are short ones. We shall
have her longer at Christmas, then we will count the days till Easter,
and after that to June, when we will have her for a long, long holiday,
and college days will be ended.”
“M’m-u’m,” nodded Mammy, drawing the coverings from the bed and laying
them carefully over chairs to air. “Spec she’ll find dat trip down from
up yonder mighty tiresome. Trabblin’ all alone is sort of frazzlin’.”
“She is hardly likely to travel alone. Mammy. So many of her college
mates will be journeying the same way, and even if they were not, she
will be pretty sure to meet Mr. Forbes; he was obliged to run up to
Springfield on Saturday and expects to return to-day. They may meet on
the same train.”
Mammy was looking out of the window. It would have made very little
difference had she been facing Mrs. Carruth. Her face was absolutely
inscrutable, as she answered:
“’Spec dat would save Miss Nonnie a heap ob trouble. Yas’m, mebbe dey
will meet up wid one anoder.”
Mrs. Carruth went upon her way to the breakfast room. Mammy had learned
all she wished to know.
At four o’clock that afternoon Miss Jean Carruth was perched upon her
point of vantage, from which every object approaching her home could be
descried. It was not a particularly easy point to reach, but that only
added to its attraction; nobody else was likely to choose it. Nearly
everyone sought the terrace, the piazza, or the upper windows in
preference to the stable roof, even though the stable roof boasted a
delightful assortment of gables and dormer windows, to say nothing of a
broad gutter, around which one could prance at the imminent risk of a
header to the ground, at least twelve feet below. In the golden haze of
that mellow November afternoon, for autumn lingered late this year, Jean
sat curled up in her corner, her chin resting in her palms, and her
wonderful eyes fixed upon the road leading up the hill to her home. It
was in reality more street than road, but was nearly always mentioned as
the “hill road,” owing to its contrast to the broader highway from which
it branched and zig-zagged up the hill to the more sparsely settled
section of Riveredge. The watcher commanded all its length. Presently
the shining eyes lighted up with a queer, half-delighted, half-defiant
expression. Far down the road a vehicle was approaching; it was one of
the railroad station surreys, and in it were seated two people, besides
the driver: two people quite oblivious to all the rest of the world, if
one could judge by their absorbing interest in each other, for the keen
eyes watching them could discern this, even from their owner’s distance
from the surrey.
“Um.” The utterance might be interpreted almost any way. Then, “_Now_, I
dare say, we’ve got to have him here all this evening, and all
to-morrow, and all the next day, and all every day; and I don’t want him
around every single minute. My goodness, it was bad enough before Nonnie
left for —— College; we never could get a single word in edgeways. I
wonder if he’s going to board here? I used to like him when he just came
to see us all, but now he’s tickled to death if everybody’s engaged when
he shows up; _everybody but Nonnie_. I reckon I’ve got to take things in
hand. Nonnie’s only twenty-one, and he’s, he’s? I do believe he’s about
_forty-one_, though I never could get him to tell. But it doesn’t make
any difference! He’s too old for Nonnie, and I’m not going to let him
have her,” was the emphatic conclusion to this monologue, as Jean
scrambled to her feet and gave a defiant nod toward the vehicle, which
had just drawn up in front of the carriage block. At that moment Mrs.
Carruth and Constance hurried down the steps to greet the new arrivals.
Evidently the welcome accorded the masculine member of the party aroused
a keen sense of resentment in Jean, and some manner of outlet for her
feelings became imperative. Physical exercise was her usual
safety-valve, and in this instance she chose one which had on former
occasions proved effective, and more than once brought Mammy to the
verge of nervous prostration, and the dire prophecy that “sooner or
later dat chile gwine brek her neck.” As before stated, the gutter was
wide, it was also a stoutly constructed one of galvanized iron, but it
had _not_ been designed for a promenade, much less a running track for
athletic training. Nevertheless, it had to serve as one this time, for
Jean started running around it as though bent upon its destruction, or
her own. It came near proving her own, for just as Homer Forbes was
placing a couple of suit cases upon the piazza he chanced to catch sight
of the prancing demoiselle, and with a shout of: “Great Josephus! Are
you courting sudden death?” made a wild dash for the stable.
With a defiant skip, Jean made for the other side at top speed, lost her
balance, slipped, and the next second was hanging suspended by her arms
between earth and sky. Had she not been lithe as a cat she never could
have saved herself. Forbes was nearly petrified.
“Hang on! Confound it, what took you up there, anyway?” he cried, with
no little asperity, as the others hurried across the lawn to the trapeze
performer’s rescue.
“My feet took me up and my hands are keeping me here. Stand from under!
I’m going to drop.”
“Drop nothing!” was the very un-savant like retort. “You’ll break both
your legs. Hold on till I can get up there,” and the would-be rescuer
darted within the stable.
How she managed it no one could quite grasp, but there was a flutter of
skirts, a swing, and Jean was in a little heap upon the soft turf.
Springing lightly to her feet and dusting the grass from her palms, she
said:
“Hello, Nonnie! I got _him_ out of the way long enough to hug you
without having him watch how it’s done. Reckon he’ll learn soon enough
without me to teach him. Come on into the house, quick. He’ll find out
that I’m not killed when he looks out of the window.”
If Mrs. Carruth seemed resigned, Constance quite convulsed and Eleanor
unduly rosy, Jean seemed oblivious of those facts.