of the crises through which she had passed with others. It was not the
words she used. There was nothing in them to stir the heart or quicken
the pulse. Her power lay in the tones of her voice, whereby she was able
to recall the passion of a moment that had long spent itself; in the
fluent and responsive attitudes; in gesticulation that told far more than
her words did. The light from the vestibule lamp shone full upon her and
upon the lady whom she unconsciously selected to play the part of the
young woman whose story she was telling. The illusion was perfect. We
were in Aunt Minervy Ann’s house, Miss Sadie was sitting helpless and
hopeless before her—the whole scene was vivid and complete. She paused;
her arm, which had been outstretched and rigid for an instant, slowly
fell to her side, and—the illusion was gone; but while it lasted, it was
as real as any sudden and extraordinary experience can be.
Aunt Minervy Ann resumed her seat, with a chuckle, apparently ashamed
that she had been betrayed into such a display of energy and emotion,
saying, “Yessum, she sho’ went.”
“I don’t wonder at it,” remarked the lady of the house, with a long-drawn
sigh of relief.
Aunt Minervy Ann laughed again, rather sheepishly, and then, after
rubbing her hands together, took up the thread of the narrative, this
time directing her words to me: “All de way ter de house, suh, she ain’t
say two words. She had holt er my han’, but she ain’t walk like she uz
weak. She went along ez peart ez I did. When we got dar, some er de
niggers wuz out in de flower gyarden an’ out in de big grove callin’ ’er;
an’ dey call so loud dat I hatter put um down. ‘Hush up!’ I say, ‘an’ go
on ’bout yo’ business! Can’t yo’ Miss Sadie take a walk widout a whole
passel er you niggers a-hollerin’ yo’ heads off?’ One un um make answer,
‘Miss Fanny huntin’ fer ’er.’ She sorter grip my han’ at dat, but I say,
‘She de one you wanter see—her an’ Gabe Towers.’
“We went up on de po’ch, an’ dar wuz Miss Fanny an’ likewise Marse Gabe.
I know’d what dey wanted; dey wanted ter talk wid ’er ’bout Marse Jesse.
She clum de steps fus’ an’ I clum atter her. She cotch ’er breff hard
when she fus’ hit de steps, an’ den it come over me like a flash how deep
an’ big her trouble wuz, an’ I tell you right now, ef dat had ’a’ been
Miss Vallie gwine up dar, I b’lieve I’d ’a’ flew at ol’ Gabe Towers an’
to’ ’im lim’ fum lim’ ’fo’ anybody could ’a’ pull me off. Hit’s de trufe!
You may laugh, but I sho’ would ’a’ done it. I had it in me. Miss Fanny
seed sump’n wuz wrong, de minnit de light fell on de gal’s face. She say,
‘Why, Sadie, darlin’, what de matter wid you?’—des so—an’ made ez ef ter
put ’er arms ’roun’ ’er; but Miss Sadie swunk back. Miss Fanny sorter
swell up. She say, ‘Oh, ef I’ve hurt yo’ feelin’s ter-day—_ter-day_ uv
all de days—please, please fergi’ me!’ Well, suh, I dunner whar all dis
gwine ter lead ter, an’ I put in, ‘She des wanter have a talk wid you an’
Marse Gabe, Miss Fanny; an’ ef ter-day is one er de days her feelin’s
oughtn’ter be hurted, take keer dat you don’t do it. Kyar ’er in de
parler dar, Miss Fanny.’ I ’speck you’ll think I wuz takin’ a mighty
heap on myse’f, fer a nigger ’oman,” remarked Aunt Minervy Ann, smoothing
the wrinkles out of her lap, “but I wuz des ez much at home in dat house
ez I wuz in my own, an’ des ez free wid um ez I wuz wid my own folks.
Miss Fanny look skeer’d, an’ Marse Gabe foller’d atter, rubbin’ a little
mole he had on de top er his head. When he wus worried er aggervated, he
allers rub dat mole.
“Well, suh, dey went in, dey did, an’ I shot de do’ an’ tuck up my stan’
close by, ready fer to go in when Miss Sadie call me. I had myse’f keyed
up ter de p’int whar I’d ’a’ tol’ Marse Gabe sump’n ’bout his own fambly
connection; you know dey ain’t nobody but what got i’on rust on some er
der cloze. But dey stayed in dar an’ stayed, twel I ’gun ter git oneasy.
All kinder quare idees run th’oo my head. Atter while some un pull de
do’ open, an’ hol’ it dat away, an’ I hear Marse Gabe say, wid a trimble
an’ ketch in his th’oat, ‘Don’t talk so, chil’. Ef you done wrong, you
ain’t hurt nobody but yo’se’f, an’ it oughtn’ter hurt you. You been a
mighty big blessin’ ter me, an’ ter Fanny here, an’ I wouldn’t ’a’ missed
knowin’ you, not fer nothin’. Wid dat, he come out cle’rin up his th’oat
an’ blowin’ his nose twel it soun’ like a dinner-horn. His eye fell on
me, an’ he ’low, ‘Look like you er allers on han’ when dey’s trouble.’ I
made answer, ‘Well, Marse Gabe, dey might be wusser ones ’roun’ dan me.’
He look at me right hard an’ say, ‘Dey ain’t no better, Minervy Ann.’
Well, suh, little mo’ an’ I’d ’a’ broke down, it come so sudden. I had
ter gulp hard an’ quick, I tell you. He say, ‘Minervy Ann, go back dar
an’ tell de house-gal ter wake up de carriage-driver ef he’s ’sleep, an’
tell ’im to go meet Jesse at de train. An’ he mus’ tell Jesse dat we’d
’a’ all come, but his ma ain’t feelin’ so well.’ I say, ‘I’ll go wake
’im up myse’f, suh.’ I look in de parler an’ say, ‘Miss Sadie, does you
need me right now?’ She ’low, ‘No, not right now; I’ll stay twel—twel Mr.
Towers come.’ Miss Fanny wuz settin’ dar holdin’ Miss Sadie’s han’.
“I’ll never tell you how dey patcht it up in dar, but I made a long
guess. Fus’ an’ fo’mus’, dey wuz right down fon’ er Miss Sadie, an’ den
ef she run off time Marse Jesse put his foot in de town dey’d be a big
scandal; an’ so dey fix it up dat ef she wuz bleeze ter go, ’twuz better
to go a mont’ er two atter Marse Jesse come back. Folks may like you
mighty well, but dey allers got one eye on der own consarns. Dat de way I
put it down.
“Well, suh, de wuss job wuz lef’ fer de las’, ’kaze dar wuz Marse Jesse.
Sump’n tol’ me dat he oughter know what been gwine on ’fo’ he got in de
house, ’kaze den he won’t be aggervated inter sayin’ an’ doin’ sump’n he
oughtn’ter. So when de carriage wuz ready, I got in an’ went down ter
de depot; an’ when Marse Jesse got off de train, I wuz de fus’ one he
laid eyes on. I’d ’a’ never know’d ’im in de worl’, but he know’d me.
He holler out, ‘Ef dar ain’t Aunt Minervy Ann! Bless yo’ ol’ soul! how
you come on anyhow?’ He come mighty nigh huggin’ me, he wuz so glad ter
see me. He wuz big ez a skinned hoss an’ strong ez a mule. He say, ‘Ef I
had you in my min’ once, Aunt Minervy Ann, I had you in dar ten thousan’
times.’
“Whiles de carriage rollin’ ’long an’ grindin’ de san’ I try ter gi’ ’im
a kinder inkling er what been gwine on, but ’twuz all a joke wid ’im. I
wuz fear’d I mought go at ’im de wrong way, but I can’t do no better.
I say, ‘Marse Jesse, yo’ wife been waitin’ here fer you a long time.’
He laugh an’ ’low, ‘Oh, yes! did she bring de childun?’ I say, ‘Shucks,
Marse Jesse! Dey’s a lady in deep trouble at Marse Gabe’s house, an’ I
don’t want you ter go dar jokin’. She’s a monst’us fine lady, too.’ Dis
kinder steady ’im, an’ he say, ‘All right, Aunt Minervy Ann; I’ll behave
myse’f des like a Sunday-school scholar. I won’t say bad words an’ I
won’t talk loud.’ He had his fiddle-case in his lap, an’ he drummed on it
like he keepin’ time ter some chune in his min’.
“Well, suh, we got dar in de due time, an’ ’twuz a great meetin’ ’twixt
Marse Jesse an’ his folks. Dey des swarmed on ’im, ez you may say, an’
while dis gwine on, I went in de parler whar Miss Sadie wuz. She wuz
pale, tooby sha’, but she had done firm’d ’erse’f. She wuz standin’ by de
fier-place, lookin’ down, but she lookt up when she hear de do’ open, an’
den she say, ‘I’m mighty glad it’s you, Aunt Minervy Ann; I want you ter
stay in here.’ I ’low, ‘I’ll stay, honey, ef you say stay.’ Den she tuck
’er stand by me an’ cotch holt er my arm wid bofe ’er han’s an’ kinder
leant ag’in me.
“Bimeby, here come Marse Jesse. Trouble wuz in his eye when he open de
do’, but when he saw de gal, his face lit up des like when you strike a
match in a closet. He say, ‘Why, Miss Sadie! You dunner how glad I is ter
see you. I been huntin’ all over de country fer you.’ He make ez ef ter
shake han’s, but she draw’d back. Dis cut ’im. He say: ‘What de matter?
Who you in mournin’ fer?’ She ’low, ‘Fer myse’f.’ Wid dat she wuz gwine
on ter tel ’im ’bout what she had done, but he wouldn’t have it dat
way. He say, ‘When I come back ter life, atter I wuz drownded, I ’gun
ter hunt fer you des ez soon’s I got out’n de hospittle. I wuz huntin’
fer you ter tell you dat I love you. I’d ’a’ tol’ you dat den, an’ I
tell you dat now.’ She grip my arm mighty hard at dat. Marse Jesse went
on mightly. He tell ’er dat she ain’t done nobody no harm, dat she wuz
welcome ter his name ef he’d ’a’ been dead, an’ mo’ welcome now dat he
wuz livin’. She try ter put in a word here an’ dar, but he won’t have it.
Stan’in’ up dar he wuz ol’ Gabe Towers over ag’in; ’twuz de fus’ time I
know’d he faver’d ’im.
“He tol’ ’er ’bout how he wrenched a do’ off’n one er de rooms in de
boat, an’ how he floated on dat twel he got so col’ an’ num’ dat he can’t
hol’ on no longer, an’ how he turn loose an’ don’t know nothin’ twel
he wake up in some yuther town; an’ how, atter he git well, he had de
plooisy an’ lay dar a mont’ er two, an’ den he ’gun ter hunt fer her. He
went ’way up dar ter Hampsher whar she come fum, but she ain’t dar, an’
den he come home; an’ won’t she be good ’nuff ter set down an’ listen at
’im?
“Well, suh, dey wuz mo’ in Marse Jesse dan I had any idee. He wuz a rank
talker, sho’. I see ’er face warmin’ up, an’ I say, ‘Miss Sadie, I ’speck
I better be gwine.’ Marse Jesse say, ‘You ain’t in my way, Aunt Minervy
Ann; I done foun’ my sweetheart, an’ I ain’t gwine ter lose ’er no mo’,
you kin des bet on dat.’ She ain’t say nothin’ an’ I know’d purty well
dat eve’ything wuz all skew vee.”
“I hope they married,” remarked the lady of the house, after waiting
a moment for Aunt Minervy Ann to resume. There was just a shade of
suspicion in her tone.
“Oh, dey married, all right ’nuff,” said Aunt Minervy Ann, laughing.
“Didn’t it create a good deal of talk?” the lady asked, suspicion still
in her voice.
“Talk? No, ma’m! De man what dey git de license fum wuz Miss Fanny’s
br’er, Gus Featherstone, an’ de man what married um wuz Marse Gabe’s
bro’er, John Towers. Dey wa’n’t nobody ter do no talkin’. De nex’ mornin’
me an Miss Sadie an’ Marse Jesse got in de carriage an’ drove out ter
John Towers’s place whar he runnin’ a church, an’ ’twuz all done an’ over
wid mos’ quick ez a nigger kin swaller a dram.”
“What do you think of it?” I asked the lady of the house.
“Why, it is almost like a story in a book.”
“Does dey put dat kinder doin’s in books?” asked Aunt Minervy Ann, with
some solicitude.
“Certainly,” replied the lady.
“Wid all de turmile, an’ trouble, an’ tribulation—an’ all de worry an’
aggervation? Well, Hamp wanted me ter l’arn how ter read, but I thank my
stars dat I can’t read no books. Dey’s ’nuff er all dat right whar we
live at widout huntin’ it up in books.”
After this just observation, it was time to put out the lights.
III
HOW AUNT MINERVY ANN RAN AWAY AND RAN BACK AGAIN
In the matter of attending the fair at Halcyondale, Aunt Minervy Ann’s
hospitable wishes jumped with my own desires, and it was not difficult
to give her a hard and fast promise in the matter; nor did it take the
edge off my desires to entertain a suspicion, verified long afterward,
that Aunt Minervy Ann’s anxiety was based on a hope, expressed by Major
Perdue, that the fair would be properly handled in the Atlanta papers.
The directors of the fair were represented at the little railway station,
at Halcyondale, by a committee, and into the hands of this committee
fell every man, woman, and child that stepped from the passing trains.
It mattered little what the business of these incoming travellers was;
whether they came to visit the fair or to attend to their own private
affairs. They were seized, bag and baggage, by the committee and borne
triumphantly to the hotel, or to a boarding-place, or to some private
house. The members of the committee had a duty to perform, and they
performed it with an energy and a thoroughness that was amazing if not
altogether satisfactory. As I remember, this vigorous body was called the
Committee on Public Comfort, and most heroically did it live up to its
name and its duties.
These things I learned by observation and not by experience, for before
the train on which I was a passenger had cleared the suburbs of Atlanta,
I caught a glimpse of Major Tumlin Perdue, who had long been a prominent
citizen of Halcyondale. He had changed but little during the ten years.
His hair was whiter, and he was a trifle thinner, but his complexion
was still rosy and his manners as buoyant as ever. I doubted whether
he would know me again, though he had been very friendly with me in
the old days, seeming to know by instinct just when and how to drop a
word of encouragement and appreciation, and so I forbore to renew the
acquaintance. The Major could be boisterous enough in those times when
in the humor, but when at his best he had more ways like those of a
woman (and a noble and tender-hearted woman at that) than any man I had
ever known. He had a woman’s tact, intuition, and sympathy; and these
qualities were so exquisitely developed in him that they lifted him high
in the estimation of a young man who was living away from his mother, and
who was somewhat lonely on that account.
Presently, the Major came along the aisle for a drink of water. As he
was in the act of drinking, his eyes met mine, and he recognized me
instantly. He swallowed the water with a gulp.
“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed, greeting me with the simple
cordiality that springs from an affectionate nature. “Why, I wouldn’t
take ten dollars for this! I was thinking about you this very day. Don’t
you remember the night we went out to ku-klux the Ku-klux, and the chap
that mighty nigh broke his neck running into a wire clothes-line? I saw
him to-day. He would hardly speak to me,” the Major went on, laughing
heartily. “He’s never got over that night’s business. I thought about
you, and I started to hunt you up; but you know how it is in Atlanta.
Folks ain’t got time to eat, much less to tell you where anybody lives. A
man that’s too busy is bound to worry, and worry will kill him every bit
and grain as quick as John Barleycorn. Business is bound to be the ruin
of this country, and if you don’t live to see it, your children will.”
[Illustration: The Committee of Public Comfort.]
Thus the Major talked, blending wisdom with impracticable ideas in the
most delightful way. He seemed to be highly pleased when he found that I
was to spend a week at Halcyondale, attending the fair and renewing old
friendships.
“Then you belong to me!” he exclaimed. “It’s no use,” he went on, shaking
his head when I would have protested against imposing on his good-nature;
“you needn’t say a word. The tavern is stuffed full of people, and even
if it wasn’t, you’d go to my house. If you ain’t been ruined by living in
Atlanta, it’ll seem like home to you. Dang it all! I’ll _make_ it seem
like home to you anyhow.”
Now, the affectation of hospitality is one of the commonest hypocrisies
in life, and, to a thoughtful man, one of the most sinister; but the
Major’s hospitality was genuine. It was brought over from the times
before the war, and had stood the test of age and long usage, and, most
trying of all, the test of poverty. “If you were welcome when I was well
off, how much more welcome you’ll be now that I am poor!” This was not
said by the Major, but by one of his contemporaries. The phrase fitted a
whole generation of noble men and women, and I thank Heaven that it was
true at one time even if it is not true now.
When the train, with much clinking and clanking and hissing, came to a
standstill at Halcyondale, the Major hustled me off on the side opposite
the station, and so I escaped the ordeal of resisting the efforts of
the Committee on Public Comfort to convey me to a lodging not of my own
selection. The Major’s buggy was in waiting, with a negro driver, who got
out to make room for me. He bowed very politely, calling me by name.
“You remember Hamp, I reckon,” said the Major. “He was a member of the
Legislature when you lived here.”
Certainly I remembered Hamp, who was Aunt Minervy Ann’s husband. I
inquired about her, and Hamp, who had swung up to the trunk-rack as the
buggy moved off, replied that she was at home and as well as she could be.
“Yes,” said the Major, “she’s at my house. You may _see_ somebody else
besides Minervy Ann, but you won’t _hear_ anybody else. She owns the
whole place and the people on it. I had a Boston man to dinner some time
ago, one of Conant’s friends—you remember Paul Conant, don’t you?—and
I stirred Minervy Ann up just to see what the man would say. We had a
terrible quarrel, and the man never did know it was all in fun. He said
they never would have such a lack of discipline among the servants in
Boston. I told him I would give him any reasonable amount if he would go
out and discipline Minervy Ann, just to show me how it was done. It would
have been better than a circus. You heard her, didn’t you, Hamp?”
Hamp chuckled good-naturedly. “Yasser, I did, an’ it make col’ chills run
over me ter hear how Minervy Ann went on. She cert’n’y did try herse’f
dat day.”
The Major smiled a little proudly as I thought, slapped the horse—a
bob-tailed black—with the left rein, and we went skimming along the
level, sandy street at a three-minute gait. In a short while we were at
the Major’s house, where I received a warm welcome from his daughter,
whom I had known when she was a school-girl. She was now Mrs. Paul
Conant, and even more beautiful as a matron than she had been as a girl.
I had also known her husband, who had begun his business career in the
town a year or two before I left, and even at that time he was one of the
most prominent and promising young business men in the town.
He had served in the army the last year of the war, and the service
did him a world of good, physically and mentally. His faculties were
broadened and enlarged. Contact with all sorts and conditions of men
gave him ample knowledge of his kind, and yet he kept in touch with the
finer issues of life. He was ripened and not hardened.
The surrender had no such crushing effects on him as it had on older men.
It left him youth, and where youth is there must be hope and energy.
He returned home, remained a few weeks, sold a couple of horses he had
picked up in the track of Sherman’s army, and then went into the office
of a cotton factor in Savannah, giving his services for the knowledge and
experience he desired to gain. In a very short time he learned all the
secrets of sampling and grading the great staple. He might have remained
in the office at a salary, for his aptness had made him useful, but he
preferred to return to Halcyondale, where he engaged in buying cotton
on his own account. There was just enough risk in this to stimulate his
energies, and not enough to lead to serious speculation.
To this business he added others as his capital grew, and he was soon the
most prosperous man in the town. He had formed the stock company under
whose auspices the county fair was held, and was president of the board
of directors.
[Illustration: Buying cotton on his own account.]
Aunt Minervy Ann was very much in evidence, for she acted as cook, nurse,
and house-girl. The first glimpse I had of her, she had a bucket of
water in her right hand and Conant’s baby—a bouncing boy—on her left arm.
Just then Major Perdue hustled me off to my room, thus postponing, as I
thought, the greeting I had for Aunt Minervy Ann. But presently I heard
her coming upstairs talking to herself.
“Ef dey gwine ter have folks puttin’ up wid um, dey better tell me in de
due time, so I can fix up fer um. Dey ain’t been no fresh water in deze
rooms sence dat baby wuz born’d.”
She went on to the end of the hall and looked in each of the rooms.
Then, with an exclamation I failed to catch, she knocked at my door,
which was promptly opened. As she saw me a broad smile flashed over her
good-natured face.
“I ’low’d ’twuz you,” she said, “an’ I’m mighty glad you come.” She
started to pour the water from can to pitcher, when suddenly she stayed
her hand. With the exclamation, “Well, ef dis don’t bang my time!” she
went to the head of the stairs and cried out: “Miss Vallie! Miss Vallie!
you don’t want no town folks stuck in dish yer back room, does you?”
“Why, certainly not!” cried the lady. “What could father have been
thinking of?”
“Shoo! he like all de men folks,” responded Aunt Minervy Ann.
With that she seized my valise with one hand, and, carrying the can of
water in the other, escorted me to one of the front rooms. It was an
improvement on the back room only because it had more windows to admit
the air and light. I put in a word for the Major, which I hoped would be
carried to the ears of the daughter.
“The Major gave me that room because he wanted to treat me as if I were
one of the home folks. Now you’ve brought me here, and I’ll feel as
uncomfortable as if I were company, sure enough.”
“Dey’s sump’n in dat, I ’speck,” replied Aunt Minervy Ann, laughing;
“but, lawsy, massy! you done been in dis house too much ter talk
dat-a-way. When kin folks come home, we allus gin um de bes’ dey is fer
de fus’ week er so. Atter dat dey kin rustle ’roun’ fer deyse’f.”
It is hardly necessary to say that Aunt Minervy Ann took very good care
that I should want for none of those little attentions that sharpen the
appreciation of a guest; and, in her case, obtrusiveness was not a fault,
for her intentions shone clearly and unmistakably through it all.
[Illustration: “Miss Vallie!”]
Major Perdue had the art of entertainment at his fingers’ ends, which,
though it is very simple, not one man in a hundred learns. It is the
knack of leaving the guest to his own devices without seeming to do so.
Most fortunate in his gifts is the host who knows how to temper his
attentions!
In his efforts to get the fair under way, Paul Conant found it impossible
to come to dinner, but sent his apologies.
“You’ll think it is a mighty small concern when you see it,” said the
Major, “but it takes all that Paul can do to keep it from getting into a
tangle. He has to be here, there, and everywhere, and there hasn’t been
a minute for a week or more but what forty people were hollering at him
at once, and forty more pulling and hauling him about. If he wasn’t a
steam-engine, he couldn’t hold out half an hour.”
“Well, he’ll soon straighten matters out,” said I, “and then they’ll stay
so.”
“That’s so,” remarked the Major; “but when that’s done, he’ll have to
rush around from post to pillar to keep ’em straight.”
“Did he seem to be greatly worried?” Valentine asked.
“No-o-o-o,” replied the Major, slowly and hesitatingly, “but I’m afear’d
his shoulder has begun to trouble him again.” He leaned back in his
chair and looked at the ceiling, apparently lost in thought.
“Why should you think that, father?”
“Once or twice, whilst he was rustling about I saw him fling his hand to
his shoulder and hold it there, and I’m mightily afear’d it’s hurting
him.” The Major drew a deep sigh as he spoke, and silence fell on all.
It was brief, but it was long enough for one to know that an unpleasant
subject had been touched on—that there was something more behind it all
than a pain in Conant’s shoulder. Aunt Minervy Ann, who was equal to
every emergency, created a diversion with the baby, and the Major soon
pulled himself together.
Paul Conant came home to supper, and in the sitting-room, before the meal
was announced, I observed that the Major was as solicitous about him as a
mother is of her baby. His eyes were constantly on his son-in-law, and if
the latter showed any sign of worry, or frowned as if in pain, a shadow
would pass over the Major’s genial face.
[Illustration: “I saw him fling his hand to his shoulder and hold it
there.”]
This intense solicitude was something out of the usual order, and I
wondered what was behind it. But the next day it was forgotten, nor
was it remembered until Aunt Minervy Ann reminded me of it. I had
been faithful in my attendance on the fair, had listened patiently
to the speeches, and had then tried to refresh my benumbed faculties
with such fare as could be found on the grounds—barbecue, pickles, and
ginger-cakes. But the occasion had been too much for me, and so, about
two o’clock in the afternoon, I decided to return to my quarters at Major
Perdue’s home and rest my weary limbs. The very thought of the quiet and
cool house was refreshing, and so, without waiting for a conveyance, I
set out on foot, going through the woods in preference to the public
highway, thereby cutting the distance short by nearly a mile.
A great many others had taken advantage of the short-cut through the
woods, so that I had no lack of company. Among them I noticed Aunt
Minervy and her husband, Hamp, the latter carrying the Conant baby,
which, having had enough of the pomps and vanities of this life for the
time being, was now fast asleep. I soon came up with the trio, and we
went along home together.