“THEN CAME THE WILD WEATHER.”
January and February, blustery, wild months, crept slowly away, and
March, still more blustery, came in. The cold and dampness told upon
poor old Charles, and more than one day found him a fast prisoner in the
“baid,” which, in spite of Mammy’s conviction “dat it fair hit de sore
spots,” frequently failed to find Charles’, and only served to smother
his groans. Then one day, when, in spite of his spouse’s protests, he
insisted upon going to the Arcade in a driving snowstorm, the climax was
reached, and when Charles reached his little cabin at nightfall he was
“cl’ar beat out an’ ready fer ter drap,” as Mammy told Mrs. Carruth. The
next day he was downright ill, and a physician had to be summoned.
“Seem lak, seem lak de very ol’ boy hisself done got inter dat man,”
scolded Mammy, her wrath the outcome of nervous irritation, for Charles
was the pride and the love of her life. “No matter how I is ter argify
wid him, he just natcherly boun’ ter go ’long ter dat Arcyde yistiddy,
an’ now see what done come of it! Gawd bress ma soul, I reckons I’d
smack him good ef he warn’t lyin’ dar groanin’ so wid his misery dat he
lak ’nough wouldn’t feel de smacks I give him. Tch! tch!” and Mammy
shook her head ominously.
“Poor Charles! I’ll go right out to the cabin, Mammy, and sit with him
while you look after your cooking; it’s too bad, too bad; but I think he
will soon be about again.”
“Yes, an’ ef yo’ goes out in dis hyar blizzardy weather I’ll have two
sick folks on my han’s ’stid o’ one. Now, see here, Miss Jinny, yo’ min’
me an’ stay indoors! Yo’ hear me?”
“Nonsense, Mammy. Do you think I shall take cold by walking from here to
your cabin? How foolish,” protested Mrs. Carruth. “Your luncheon counter
cannot be neglected, and with but one pair of hands how can you do your
cooking and nurse Charles, too?”
As she spoke Mrs. Carruth tied a scarf over her head and wrapped a long,
heavy cloak about her, Mammy never for a second ceasing to protest.
“Now come, Mammy,” she said, leading the way to the back door, Mammy
following and scolding every step of the way. As they opened the door
leading to the back porch they were assailed by a gust of wind and a
whirl of snow which blinded them, and at the same time nearly carried
them off their feet.
“Mighty man! Go ’long back, Miss Jinny’ Go back! Dis hyar ain’t no
fittin’ place fer yo’, I tells yo’,” gasped Mammy, turning to bar Mrs.
Carruth’s progress, for even Mammy’s weight was as a straw against the
gale which swept around the corner of the porch. But slight as she was,
Mrs. Carruth was not to be overborne. For a moment she laid hold of the
porch railing to steady herself, then with a firm hold upon her flapping
cloak braced herself against the wind, and started for the cottage.
Mammy was for once silenced, simply because the words were swept from
her lips as soon as she tried to form them.
Earlier in the morning an attempt had been made to clear a path to the
cottage; but in such a wild, howling blizzard a half hour was more than
enough to set man’s work at naught, and Mrs. Carruth and Mammy had to
flounder through the snowdrifts as best they could, and were breathless
when they reached the bottom of the garden.
“Fo’ Gawd’s sake, come unner de lee ob de house ’fore yo’ is blown daid
unner ma eyes, honey,” panted Mammy. “Oh, why for is we ever come ter
sech a place fer ter live! We all gwine be froz daid ’fore we kin draw
our brefs. Come in de house, Miss Jinny, come in,” and, half dragging,
half carrying her mistress, Mammy led her into the cabin where the
little darkey, Mammy’s handmaiden, stood with her eyes nearly popping
out of her head with fright, for she had been watching them from the
safe shelter of the kitchen.
Mrs. Carruth dropped upon a chair well-nigh exhausted, for even though
the cabin was barely two hundred feet from the house, it had required
all the strength she could summon to battle her way to it in the force
and smother of the blizzard.
“Why—why, I’d no idea it was so terrible,” she panted. “I’ve never known
such a storm.”
“Ain’t I tell yo’ so? Ain’t I tell yo’ not ter come out in it? An’ how I
is ter git yo’ back ter de house is mo’n I kin tell,” deplored Mammy, as
she hastily divested herself of her own wrappings and then turned to
remove her mistress’.
“Yo’ foots is soppin’, soakin’ wet. Yo’ mought as well not ’a’ had no
rubbers on ’em, fer yo’ is wet ter de knees. Hyer, you no ’count
Mirandy, get me some hot water, an’ den hike upstairs fo’ de bottle ob
alcohol, yo’ hyer me!” stormed Mammy, relieved to find someone to vent
her irritation upon. “An’ yo’ ain’t gwine back ter dat house whilst dis
storm is ragin’, let me tell yo’.”
“I am all right, Mammy; this is mere folly. I shall be as dry as a bone
in just a few minutes,” protested Mrs. Carruth.
“Yis! Yis! An’ lak enough chilled to de bone, too. Now, yo’ min’ what I
tells you,” and, in spite of their protests, Mrs. Carruth was presently
rubbed and warmed into dry garments and comfort. It was well Constance’s
Candy Kitchen communicated with Mammy’s quarters, and that a supply of
clothing was always kept in it. It was deserted this morning, for Mary
and Fanny had gone home on the previous, Saturday afternoon, and the
storm had made it impossible for them to return. A large supply of candy
had been sent to the Arcade on Saturday morning; so even if customers
were courageous enough to face the blizzard in quest of sweets there
would be no lack of of sweets to please the sweet tooth, and Constance
was glad of the respite the storm gave her, for, like many another busy
little business woman, she found many things to attend to in the house
when she could steal the time from her regular duties.
This morning she was busy with a dozen little odd bits of work, while
Jean, school impossible in such weather, was lost to all the outer world
in a new book.
When Mrs. Carruth was made comfortable she went upstairs to Charles. She
found him in a sorry plight, and saw at once that poor old Charles was
in a more serious condition than Mammy realized, troubled as she was
about him; but this was carefully concealed from the old woman.
“We have both to take our scolding now,” she said as she seated herself
near him. “Mammy will never forgive either of us for disobeying her,
Charles. But what can I do for you?”
Charles was too stiff and full of pain to move, but he tried to smile
bravely as he answered:
“Reckons we’d better a-minded her, Honey. Reckons we had. She’s a mighty
pert ’oman, she is, an’ when she say do, we better _do_, an’ when she
say don’t, we better _don’t_, dat’s suah. An’ jes’ look at me! Hyar I
layin’ lak I tied han’ an’ foot, an’ de bis’ness down yonder gwine ter
rack an’ ruin, lak ’nough, wid dat no ’count boy a-runnin’ it. And
Charles groaned in tribulation of spirit.
“Wait a moment; I’ll see that all goes well down there,” answered Mrs.
Carruth, soothingly, and slipping away from the room she went into the
deserted Bee-hive to ’phone to the Arcade. After considerable delay she
got Mr. Porter and told him the situation. He was all interest, and
begged her to tell Charles that if necessary he himself would mount
guard over the luncheon counter. She next called Hadyn, and asked him to
let her know how all went at the candy booth. He assured her that all
was well, but that business did not seem to be flourishing.
“Will you please tell Miss Boggs to close it for the day and to go home
at once, Hadyn? The storm grows worse every moment, I believe, and if
she remains there any longer she may not be able to get home.”
“I’ll tell her, and I’ll see that she gets home, too. Don’t worry,
little mother. I’ll be down a little later to see how you all fare.”
“Oh, no! No! Don’t try to come. We are all right, and you must not try
to drive here in this awful storm. Promise me that you won’t, Hadyn.”
“Can’t make rash promises, and Comet has breasted even worse storms than
this,” was the laughing answer. “Who is looking after your furnace, now
that Charles is down and out?”
“Mr. Henry’s man. He was here this morning, and will be back this
evening. We lack nothing, and we don’t want you under _any_
circumstances. Please, say you won’t try to come.”
“Not unless——” Then there was a whirr and one or two disconnected words
and the connection broke short off. No wires could long withstand the
weight of ice and snow and the force of wind wrenching at them. Mrs.
Carruth tried again and again to get the connection, but all to no
purpose, and with a strange apprehension in her heart she returned to
Charles’ bedside to reassure him regarding his luncheon counter.
At noon the doctor called to see Charles, and during Mammy’s absence
from the room Mrs. Carruth contrived to have a word with him.
“He’s a pretty old man, and took big chances yesterday. If it were only
the rheumatism I had to contend with, I should not feel the least
concern for him. That is painful, I know, but not dangerous, as it has
settled in his limbs; but I don’t like this temperature and breathing.
Yet I dare say, if I use a stethoscope, he will think he is a dead man
already. These colored people are difficult patients to handle, what
with their ignorance and their emotional temperaments they are far worse
than children, for we can compel children to do as we think best.”
Mrs. Carruth smiled. “You do not know the ante-bellum negro,” she said.
“Maybe I do not, but I know the post-bellum, I can tell you, and I’ve
very little use for them.”
“Do you wish to examine Charles?” she asked, quietly.
“If he had been a white man, I should have done so last night when I was
first called to attend him; but I came near being mobbed the last time I
tried to use a stethoscope on a negro patient. The family thought I was
about to remove the woman’s lungs, I believe.”
“Charles, I wish Dr. Black to examine you very thoroughly while he is
here—as thoroughly as if he were treating me. There is nothing to alarm
you; but we cannot treat you understandingly unless he learns exactly
where the greatest difficulty lies.”
“Wha’ he gwine do to me?” asked Charles, his eyes opening wide.
“Examine your lungs and heart to see if they are sound and strong.”
“He gwine cut me wide open?” cried the old man.
Just then Mammy entered. It was well she did. “Luty, Luty, dat man gwine
projec’ wid me, honey; don’ you let him.”
For a moment Mammy seemed ready to take the defensive, and Dr. Black
shrugged his shoulders in a manner which indicated: “I told you so.”
Perhaps it was the shrug—Mammy wasn’t slow to grasp a situation—but more
likely it was the look in her Miss Jinny’s eyes, for, turning to the
doctor, she said, with the air of an African queen:
“Yo’ is de perfessional ’tendant, an’ I wishes yo’ fer ter do what yo’
an’ ma Miss Jinny knows fer ter be right wid de patient.”
When Dr. Black left a few moments later, he said to Mrs. Carruth, who
had followed him downstairs, while Mammy remained behind to alternately
berate and calm Charles:
“If we can keep the fever down, the old fellow may escape with nothing
worse than his rheumatic twinges—hard to bear, but not alarming; but I
don’t like the other symptoms. He was too old to take such chances. Can
you let me hear from him about eight this evening?”
“Every hour if necessary. He is like one of our own family to us, and
nothing we can do for him or Mammy can ever repay their devotion to us.
Would it not be better for you to call again?”
“I’d gladly do so, but I am likely to be summoned to a patient in
Glendale at any moment, and with this storm——” And the doctor waved his
hand toward the turmoil beyond the windows.
“I know it. I will ’phone if——” Then Mrs. Carruth paused in dismay.
“What if the wires were down?”
“My wire was all right when I left home less than an hour since, and you
may not need me, after all. I hope you will not.”
“Amen to that hope,” said Mrs. Carruth, fervently, and, bidding the
doctor good-bye, she returned to Charles.
As the day dragged on the storm increased in violence. Mammy would not
hear of Mrs. Carruth returning to the house, but prepared a dainty tray
for her and ordered her into the Bee-hive to partake of her luncheon,
and afterward to lie down. Perhaps she would not have been so ready to
comply with the old woman’s wishes had she not resolved upon a course
which she felt sure Mammy would combat with all her strength. This was
to spend the night with Charles, whose condition did not improve. Toward
evening Jean came battling out to the cottage, followed by Constance,
greatly to Mammy’s consternation.
“I ’clar’s ter goodness, yo’s all gone crazy!” she stormed as they came
in from the Bee-hive. “Fo’ de Lawd’s sake, wha’ brung you chillun out
hyer? Ain’ yo’ Ma an’ me got ’nough fer ter pester us wid dat sick man
up dar widout any mo’ tribberlations ’scendin’ ’pon us? Go ’long back, I
tells yo’; ’fo’ we’s driven cl’ar crazy.”
“Hush, Mammy, dear,” said Constance. “I want mother to go back to the
house and let me take her place with Charles. I am so strong that it
won’t tire me, and you know I’m a good nurse, don’t you?”
“And so am I, Mammy. You know I am,” broke in Jean. “Please, please let
me stay.”
For a moment Mammy looked as though she were about to take a wild flight
into the wilder weather outside, and her wits along with her; then she
stamped her foot and said:
“Yo’ chillern come an’ talk wid yo’ ma.”