A New Member of the Family
"Has you-all done 'cided to do wid out yo' suppers dis yer night?
'Cause if you _is_ I 'spec's I kin clar away," was the autocratic
inquiry of Mammy Melviny as she stood in the doorway of the
living-room, her ample proportions very nearly filling it.
Hadyn Stuyvesant's call had been of longer duration than Mammy
approved, for her hot corn cakes were being rapidly ruined by the
delayed meal, and this was an outrage upon her skill in cooking. Mammy
had been Mrs. Carruth's nurse "down souf" and still regarded that
dignified lady as her "chile," and subject to her dictation. She was
the only servant which Mrs. Carruth now kept, the others having been
what Mammy stigmatized as "po' northern no 'count niggers" who gave
the minimum of work for the maximum of pay, and were prompt to take
their departure when adversity overtook their employer.
Not so Mammy. When the crisis came Mrs. Carruth stated the case to her
and advised her to seek another situation where she would receive the
wages her ability commanded, and which Mrs. Carruth, in her reduced
circumstances, could no longer afford to pay her. The storm which the
suggestion produced was both alarming and amusing. Placing her arms
upon her hips, and raising her head like a war-horse scenting battle,
Mammy stamped her foot and cried:
"Step down an' out? Get out 'en de fambly? Go wo'k fer some o' dese
hyer strange folks what aint keer a cent fo' me, an' aint know who I
_is_? _Me?_ a Blairsdale! Huh! What sort o' fool talk is _dat_, Baby?
Yo' cyant _git_ me out. Yo' need 'n ter try, kase 'taint gwine be no
good ter. I's hyer and hyer I's gwine _stay_, no matter _what_ come.
'Taint no use fer ter talk ter _me_ 'bout money and wages an' sich
truck. What I kerrin' fer dem? I'se got 'nough, an' ter spare. What
yo' t'ink I'se been doin' all dese years o' freedom? Flingin' my
earnin's 'way? Huh! You _know_ I aint done no sich foolishness. I'se
got a pile--yis, an' a _good_ pile too,--put 'way. I need n't ter ever
do a stroke mo' work long 's I live if I don't wantter. I'se _rich_, I
is. But I _gwine_ ter work jist 's long's I'se mind ter. Ain't I free?
Who gwine ter say I cyant wo'k? Now go long an' tend ter yo' business
and lemme lone ter tend ter mine, and dat's right down wid de pots and
de kettles, and de stew pans, an' de wash biler and de wash tubs, an'
I reckon I kin do more 'n six o' dese yer Norf niggers put togedder
when I set out ter good an' hard if I _is_ most sixty years old. Hush
yo' talk chile, an' don't let me ketch you a interferin' wid _my_
doin's agin. You heah _me_?" And at the end of this tirade, Mammy
turned sharply about and marched off like a grenadier. Mrs. Carruth
was deeply touched by the old woman's loyalty, but knowing the
antebellum negro as she did, she realized how wounded Mammy had been
by the suggestion that she seek a more lucrative situation among
strangers. Mammy had been born and raised a slave on Mrs. Carruth's
father's plantation in North Carolina, and would always consider
herself a member of Mrs. Carruth's family. Alas for the days of such
ties and such devotion!
So Mammy was now the autocrat of the household and ruled with an iron
hand, although woe to anyone who dared to overstep the bounds _she_
had established as her "Miss Jinny's" rights, or the "chillen's"
privileges as "old marster's gran'-chillern." "Old Marster" was
Mammy's ideal of what a gentleman should be, and "de days befo' de
gre't turmoil" were the only days "fitten for _folks_ (always to be
written in italics) to live in."
She was an interesting figure as she stood in the doorway, and snapped
out her question, although her old face, surmounted by its gay
bandanna turban was the personification of kindliness, and her keen
eyes held only love for her "white folks."
She was decidedly corpulent and her light print gown and beautifully
ironed white apron stood out from her figure until they completely
filled the doorway.
Mrs. Carruth turned toward her and asked with a quizzical smile;
"What is spoiling, Mammy?"
"Huh! Ain't nuffin spilin's I knows on, but dat Miss Nornie done say
she ain't had no co'n cakes 'n 'bout 'n age an' if she _want_ 'em so
turrible she'd better come and _eat_ 'em,"--and with a decisive nod
Mammy stalked off toward the dining-room.
"Come, girls, unless you want to evoke the displeasure of the
presiding genius of the household," said Mrs. Carruth smiling, as she
led the way in Mammy's wake.
It was a pleasant meal, for Mammy would not countenance the least
lapse from the customs of earlier days, and the same pains were taken
for the simple meals now served as had been taken with the more
elaborate ones during Mr. Carruth's lifetime. The linen must be ironed
with the same care; the silver must shine as brightly, and the glass
sparkle as it had always done. Miss Jinny must not miss any of the
luxuries to which she had been born if Mammy could help it.
"Isn't he splendid, mother?" asked Jean, as she buttered her third
corn cake. "He was _so_ good to Baltie and to me."
"I am very glad to know him, dear, for Lyman was much attached to
him."
"Where has he been all these years, mother, that we have never met him
in Riveredge?" asked Eleanor.
"He has lived abroad when not at college. He took his degree last
spring. His mother died there a little more than a year ago, I
understand. She never recovered from the blow of his father's death
when Hadyn was about fifteen years of age. She went abroad soon after
for her health and never came back. He came over for his college
course at Princeton, but always rejoined her during his holidays."
"How old a man is he, mother? He seems both young and old," said
Constance.
"I am not sure, but think he must be about Lyman's age--nearly
twenty-four. But the Society seems to have made a wise choice in
electing him its president; he has certainly taken energetic measures
in this case and I am glad that he has, for it is disgraceful to have
such a thing occur in Riveredge. Poor old horse! It would have been
more merciful to shoot him. How could Jabe Raulsbury have been so
utterly heartless?"
"But, mother, suppose no one will take old Baltie and give him a
home?" persisted Jean, "will he _have_ to be shot then?"
"Would it not be kinder to end such a hapless existence than to leave
it to an uncertain fate, dear?" asked Mrs. Carruth gently.
"Well, maybe, but _I_ don't want him killed. He _loves_ me," was
Jean's answer and the little upraising of the head at the conclusion
of the remark conveyed more to Constance than to the others. Constance
understood Jean better than any other member of the family, and during
the summer just passed Jean had many times gone to the field in which
Baltie was pastured to carry some dainty to the poor old horse and her
love for him and compassion for his wretchedness were deep.
No more was said just then, but Constance knew that the subject had
not passed from Jean's thoughts and one afternoon, exactly two weeks
from that evening, this was verified.
Mrs. Carruth had gone to sit with a sick friend. Eleanor was in her
room lost to everything but a knotty problem for Monday's recitation,
and Mammy was busily occupied with some dainty dish against her Miss
Jinny's home-coming. Constance was laying the tea-table when the
crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch, upon the gravel of the driveway caused
her to look up, there to behold Jean with old Baltie in tow.
"Merciful powers, what _has_ the child done now?" she exclaimed as she
let fall with a clatter the knife and fork she was about to place upon
the table and flew to the front door, crying as she hastily opened it:
"Jean Carruth what in this world _have_ you been doing?"
"I've brought him home. I _had_ to. I went down to ask Mr. Pringle if
anybody had come to take him, but he wasn't there. There wasn't
_any_body there but old deaf Mike who cleans the stable and I couldn't
make _him_ understand a single thing I said. He just mumbled and
wagged his head for all the world like that China mandarin in the
library, and didn't do a thing though I yelled at him as hard as I
could."
"But _how_ did you get Baltie and, greater marvel, _how_ did you bring
him all this way home?" persisted Constance, bound to get to the
bottom of facts.
"I went into the box-stall--it's close to the door you know--and got him
and led him here."
"But where was Mike, and what was he doing all that time to _let_ you
do such a thing?"
"O, he went poking off down the stable and didn't pay any attention to
me. It wouldn't have made any difference if he _had_; I had gone there
to rescue Baltie and save him from being shot, and I didn't mean to
come away without doing it. The two weeks were up to-day and he was
_there_. If any one had been found to take him he _wouldn't_ have been
there yet, would he? So _that_ settled it, and I wasn't going to take
any chances. If I'd let him stay one day longer they might have shot
him. If I could have found Mr. Pringle I'd have told him, but I
couldn't, and I didn't dare to wait. I left my bank money, almost five
dollars, to pay for this week's board--Mr. Stuyvesant said it would be
enough--and a little note to tell him it was for Baltie; I wrote it on
a piece of paper in his office, and then I came home as fast as Baltie
could walk, and here we are."
Jean had talked very rapidly and Constance was too dumfounded for the
time being, to interrupt the flow of words. Presently however, she
recovered her speech and, resting one hand on Baltie's withers and the
other on Jean's shoulder, asked resignedly:
"And now that you've got him, may I ask what in this world you propose
to _do_ with him?"
"Take him out to the stable of course and take care of him as long as
he lives," was the uncontrovertible reply.
"Mother will _never_ let you do such a thing, Jean, and he must be
taken back to Pringle's at once," said Constance, with more emphasis
than usually entered her speech toward this mad-cap little sister.
"I won't! I won't! I _won't_ let him go back!" broke out Jean, a storm
of sobs ending the protest and bringing Mammy upon the scene hot-foot,
for Mammy's ears were keen for notes of woe from her baby.
"What's de matter, honey? What done happen ter yo'?" she cried as she
came hurrying across the little porch upon which the dining-room
opened. "Bress Gawd what yo' got dere, chile? Huccum dat old horse
here?"
"Oh Mammy, Mammy, its Baltie, and she says I can't keep him, and they
are going to _kill_ him, 'cause he's old and blind and hasn't anyone
to take care of him. And Mammy, Mammy, _please_ don't let 'em 'cause I
_love_ him. I do, I do, Mammy," cried Jean as she cast Baltie's leader
from her and rushed to Mammy, to fling herself into those protecting
arms and sob out her woes.
"Wha', wha', wha', yo' say, Baby?" stammered Mammy, whose tongue
sometimes became unruly under great excitement. "Somebody gwine tek
away dat old horse dat yo' love, an' breck yo' heart? Huh! Who gwine
do dat when Mammy stan' by? I like 'er _see_ 'em do it! _Co'se_ I
knows Baltie. Ain' I seen him dese many years? An' yo' gwine pertec'
him an' keer fer him in his discrepancy? Well, ef yo' wantter yo'
_shall_, an' dat's all 'bout it."
"But Mammy, Mammy, she can't; she mustn't; what will mother say?"
remonstrated Constance smiling in spite of herself at the ridiculous
situation for Mammy had promptly put on her war-paint, and was a
formidable champion to overcome.
"An' what yo' _ma_ gotter say 'bout it if _I_ sets out ter tak' care
of an' old horse? 'Taint _her_ horse. _She_ aint got nothin' 'tall ter
_do wid_ him. He's been a lookin', an' a waitin'; and de Lawd knows
but he's been _a-prayin'_ fer a pertecter----how _we-all_ gwine know he
aint _prayed_ ter de Lawd fer ter raise one up fer him in his mis'ry?
An' now he's _got_ one an' it's _me_ an' dis chile. Go 'long an' set
yo' table an' let us 'lone. Come on honey; we'll take old Baltie out
yonder ter de stable an' bed him _down_ an' feed him _up_ twell he so
sot up he like 'nough bus' wid pride, an' I just like ter see who
gwine _stop_ us. Hi yah-yah, yah," and Mammy's wrath ended in a
melodious laugh as she caught hold of the leader and stalked off with
this extraordinary addition to her already manifold duties, Jean
holding her free hand and nodding exultingly over her shoulder at
Constance who had collapsed upon the lower step.