Patsy and Benjamin, her husband, were talking about their first and
second weddings, and of Caleb, their son. They were also thinking of
Rahab, Caleb's teacher.
"We have been blessed in the number of our weddings," said she.
"Yes; but cursed in Caleb," he replied.
"Our last wedding, as free people, was not equal to the first as
slaves."
"That was because Caleb came in between."
"How many ex-slaves have considered the significance of these second
weddings?"
"How many fathers and mothers have been cursed by only sons?"
Caleb entered the room as his father uttered these words, and struck him
violently over the heart. The old man straightened up, gasped
spasmodically, clutched at his breast wildly, and then fell heavily to
the floor. Caleb, with a parting sneer, left the room, while Patsy ran
to the aid of her husband. She turned him on his back, opened his shirt
at the neck, but her efforts were of no avail. Benjamin was dead.
Patsy did not report Caleb for the murder of his father, but went on
thinking her own theology and asking Rahab to explain.
"A thirty-dollar coffin? No, no, undertaker! A five-dollar robe? No, no,
undertaker! Four carriages? No, no, undertaker! Think you the living
have no rights? Cold, rigid dignity will suffice the dead, but the
living must have money. He was my father, and I am his heir; therefore,
speedy forgetfulness for the one and luxury for the other. Five hundred
dollars are upon his life. As four hundred and fifty slip through my
fingers I'll remember I owe him something for dying a pauper. Twenty
dollars will keep Patsy chewing starch; and you, undertaker, may have
the rest, and the thanks of science for your services. Why gaze upon the
dead? Think you how you can make it twenty? At twenty? At twenty, you
say? Cigars, cigars, ten dollars for cigars. You can't? Out! Out! Out!
Offend not the living by pitying the dead."
Caleb thus addressed the undertaker while gazing upon the dead body of
his father.
As the undertaker left the room Patsy hobbled in upon her crutches, sat
close to the corpse and sobbed aloud.
"Why those tears, old woman?" asked Caleb.
"Where is your heart, Caleb, my boy?"
"In the twenty dollars you hold in your hand. Disgrace, and disgrace,
and ever disgrace! The old man was a boaster in life and a pauper in
death. Now you would spend for starch what I should spend for cigars. No
more disgrace for the family, old woman. Eschew starch, bless your son,
and hie you to the washtub."
He took the money and arranged it in the shape of a cigar.
Patsy looked lovingly at Caleb, and considered Rahab's offer to preach
Benjamin's funeral sermon.
On the day of Benjamin's funeral Rahab was present. Patsy gave him a
chair close to the coffin. The people were so seated that egress was
impossible.
Leaning upon her crutches and gazing straight into Rahab's face, Patsy
gave out, and the people sang: "A charge to keep I have, a God to
glorify."
Rahab looked at the corpse; and, seeing a sermon in the cold, rigid
form, turned and looked at Patsy. "Beware of the immediate future," said
she.
Rahab trembled, stammered something, and looked at the ceiling. Patsy
brought her crutch in close proximity to his head.
Said she, keeping her crutch in motion and her eye in Rahab's: "Words of
the dead to the dead avail little. Were it not for your presence there
would be no funeral sermon. The man in the coffin is not dead, but
sleeping. Why should we disturb his slumbers? You have just life enough
to hear your doom. Why should we not pronounce it?"
Rahab started to rise. Patsy moved her crutch, and the people sang:
"That awful day will surely come."
Rahab dropped back into his seat and looked wildly around the room.
Patsy laid her hand gently upon his shoulder and said: "Rahab,
Benjamin's blood is in part upon your hands. Caleb believed you when you
said that God would curse him. After seeing your crimes he believed that
God had cursed both. To be cursed, he thinks, gives the right to curse.
Rahab, the Master is waiting and calling."
"He is waiting," said Rahab; "but not to bless."
The people sang: "While the lamp holds out to burn the vilest sinner may
return."
Rahab raised himself up with difficulty and pitched forward upon the
floor.
"Rahab, what do you see?" asked Patsy.
"I see Caleb's undoing between me and the New Jerusalem. Fool was I. I
won his confidence, and led him to believe false doctrine. God, pardon
Caleb. I sinned in his sight and laughed at his virtue. Damn not Caleb,
O God, but me."
Rahab ceased to speak and was carried out. His last words were: "Damn
not Caleb, O God, but me."
Some said he died of excitement; others said it was of pure
consciousness of guilt.
A few weeks passed. The night was cold, and Patsy was dying. Caleb sat
in a corner of the room. In his mouth was a lighted cigar. At his feet
was a split-covered box, from which came a sound that was music to his
ears.
On a similar night about a year before Patsy cried out pitifully: "My
baby, my Caleb, perdition, perdition!" She had sprung forward, as though
about to clutch something, and had struck her head against the stove,
inflicting an ugly wound.
"It was all a dream," she afterwards said. "Methought my Caleb was a
babe again. I pressed him to my heart and crooned one of those
nonsensical baby ditties so old, yet so sweet to the mother's heart.
When he said 'Dad,' 'Dad,' I held him up and kissed his chin, mouth,
nose, eyes, and forehead. I looked five years ahead and saw him clinging
to my dress while I gathered roses for his brow. I looked ten years
ahead and saw him among his schoolmates, contending for the mastery in
sports and studies. Again I looked and saw him a man of thirty, I, bent
and gray, leaning upon his arm, receiving the confidence of the wise,
the respect of the just. Time, the robber, would steal my angel. I held
him up and kissed his hands and feet over and over. I fell asleep. When
I awoke my baby was lying upon the floor. Thinking it was hurt, I
screamed: 'My baby.' Straightway it turned into Caleb, the man, and I
called: 'My Caleb!' A flame of fire sprang up and began to circle him
round. Then it was I cried: 'Perdition, perdition!' and sprang to help
him. This ugly wound on my head will be my death; but Caleb, Caleb!"
The night was cold, and Patsy was dying. Caleb sat in a corner of the
room. In one hand was the stump of a cigar. In the other was a chicken,
still making the sound that was music to his ears. When Patsy's groans
disturbed him he moved the empty box with his feet.
"Old woman," said he, "I have stolen a chicken. Will you be my guest?"
"Caleb," groaned Patsy, "you should not steal."