"Oh! the poor dear!" gasped Helen, for she, like Ruth, discovered the
little lady's infirmity almost at once.
The old negro coachman pompously strode down the porch, beckoning to the
girls to follow. They were, for the moment, embarrassed. It seemed
impudent to approach this strange gentlewoman with no introduction save
that of the disreputable looking Unc' Simmy.
But the quick, sudden shower lulled a little and they could hear the
lady's voice--a sweet, delicious, drawling tone. She said:
"Yo' have brought some callers, I see, Simmy. Good afternoon, young
ladies."
Her use of the word "see" brought the quick, stinging tears to Ruth
Fielding's eyes. But the lady's smile and outstretched hand welcomed
both girls to her end of the porch. The hand was frail and beautiful. It
surely had never done any work more arduous than the knitting in the
lady's lap.
She was dressed very plainly in gingham; but every flaunce was starched
and ironed beautifully, and the lace in the low-cut neck of the cheap
gown and at the wrists, was valuable and ivory-hued with age.
The negro cleared his voice and said, with great respect, removing his
ancient hat as he did so:
"De young ladies done tak' refuge yere wid' yo' w'ile it shower so hard,
Miss Catalpa. I tell 'em yo' don't mind dem comin' in t' res'. Yo' knows
Unc' Simmy dribes de quality eround de P'int nowadays."
"Oh, yes, Simmy. I know," said Miss Catalpa, with a little sigh. "It
isn't as it used to be befo' _we_ had to take refuge, too, in this old
gatehouse. It is a refuge both in sun and rain fo' us. How do you do, my
dears? I know you are young ladies--and I love the young. And I fancy you
are from the No'th, too?"
And Helen and Ruth had not yet said a word! The subtle appreciation of
the blind woman told her much that astonished the girls.
"Yes, ma'am," said Ruth, striving to keep her voice from shaking, for
the pity she felt for the lady gripped her at the throat. "We are two
schoolgirls who have come down to Dixie to play for a few weeks after
our graduation from Briarwood Hall."
"Indeed? I went to school fo' a while at Miss Chamberlain's in
Washington. Hers was a very select young ladies' school. But, re'lly,
you know, had my po' eyes not been too weak to study, the family
exchequer could scarcely stand the drain," and she laughed, low and
sweetly. "The Grogan fortunes had long been on the wane, you see. No men
to build them up again. The war took everything from us; but the
heaviest blow of all was the killin' of our men."
"It must have been terrible," said Ruth, "to lose one's brothers and
fathers and cousins by bullet and sword."
"Yes, indeed!" sighed the lady. "Not that I can remembah it, child! No
more than you can. I'm not so old as all that," and she laughed merrily.
"The Grogan plantation was gone, of course, long before I saw the light.
But my father was a broken man, disabled by the campaigns he went
through."
"Isn't it terrible?" whispered Helen to her chum, for it sounded to the
unsophisticated girl like a tale of recent happenings.
Miss Catalpa smiled, turning her sightless eyes up to them. "There's
only Unc' Simmy and I left now. My lawyer, Kunnel Wildah, tells me there
is barely enough left to keep us in this po' place till I'm called to my
long rest," said the lady devoutly.
"But my wants are few. Uncle Simmy does for me most beautifully. He is
the last of the family servants--bo'n himself on the old plantation. This
was the gateway to the Grogan Place--and it was a mile from the house,"
and she laughed again--pleasantly, sweetly, and as carefree in sound as a
bird's note. "The limits of the estate have shrunk, you see."
"It must be dreadful to have been rich, and then fall into poverty,"
Helen said, commiseratingly.
"Why, honey," said Miss Catalpa, cheerfully, "nothin' is dreadful in
this wo'ld if we look at it right. All trials are sent for our blessin',
if we take them right. Even my blindness," she added simply. "It must
have been for my good that I was deprived of the boon of sight ten years
ago--just when almost the last bit of money left to me seemed to have
been lost. And I expect if I hadn't foolishly cried so much over the
failure of the Needles Bank where the money was, and which seemed to be
a total wreck, I would not have been totally blind. So the doctors tell
me."
"Dear, dear!" murmured Helen, wiping her own eyes.
"But then, you see, there was enough saved from the wreckage after all
to keep me alive," and Miss Catalpa smiled again. "All that troubles me
is what will become of Uncle Simmy when I am gone. He insists on 'dribin
de quality', as he calls it, and so earns a little something for
himself. That livery he wears is the old Grogan livery. I expect it is a
good deal faded by now," she laughed, adding: "Our old barouche, too! He
insists on taking me out in it every pleasant Sunday. I can feel that
the cushions are ragged and that the wheels wobble. Po' Uncle Simmy! Ah!
here he is. Surely, Simmy, the rain hasn't stopped?"
"No'm, Miss Catalpa," said the old negro, appearing and bowing again.
"But mebbe 'twon't stop soon, an' deseyer young ladies want t' git back
fo' luncheon at de hotel. I done fix' dat hood, misses. 'Twell keep yo'
dry."
Ruth took the lady's hand again. "I am glad to have met you," she said,
her voice quite firm now. "If we stay long enough at the Point, may we
come and see you again?"
"Sho'ly! Sho'ly, my dear," she said, drawing Ruth down to kiss her
cheek. "I love to have you young people about me. Take good care of
them, Uncle Simmy."
"Ya-as'm, Miss Catalpa-- Ah sho' will."
She kissed Helen, too, and possibly felt the tears on the girl's cheek.
She patted the hand she held and whispered: "Don't weep for me, my dear.
I am going to a better and a brighter world some day, I know. I am not
through with this one yet--and I love it. There is nothing to weep for."
"And if I were she I'd not only cry my eyes blind, but I'd cry them
_out_!" whispered Helen to Ruth, as they followed the old coachman.
When they were out of ear-shot of the Lady of the Gatehouse Ruth asked:
"Who keeps house for Miss Grogan, Uncle Simmy?"
"Fo' Miss Catalpa?" ejaculated the negro. "Sho', missy, she don't need
nobody but Unc' Simmy."
"There is no woman servant?"
"Lor' bress yo'," chuckled the black man, "ain't been no money to pay
sarbents since dat Needleses' Bank done busted. Nebber _did_ hear tell
o' sech a bustification as _dat_. Dar warn't re'lly nottin' lef' fo' de
rats in de cellar. Das wot Kunnel Wildah say."
Ruth looked at the old man seriously and with a glance that saw right
into the white soul that dwelt in his very black and crippled body: "Who
launders her frocks so beautifully--and your trousers, Unc' Simmy?" was
her innocent if somewhat impudent question.
"Ma ol' woman done hit till she up an' died 'bout eight 'r nine years
ago," said the coachman.
"And _you_ have done it all since?"
"Oh, ya-as'm! ya-as'm!" exclaimed Unc' Simmy, briskly. "Miss Catalpa
wouldn't feel right if she knowed anybody else did fo' her but me--No'm!"
Helen had gone ahead. The old man, his eyes lowered, stood before Ruth
in the rain. The girl opened her purse quickly, selected a five dollar
bill, and thrust it into his hand.
"Thank you, Unc' Simmy," she said firmly. "That's all I wanted to know."
A tear found a wrinkle in Unc' Simmy's lined face for a sluiceway; but
the darkey was still smiling. "Lor' bress you', honey!" he murmured. "I
dunno wot Unc' Simmy would do if 'twarn't fo' yo' rich folks from de
Norf. Ah got a lot to t'ank you-uns for 'sides ma freedom! An' so's Miss
Catalpa," he added, "on'y she don't know it."
"Come along, Ruth!" cried Helen, hopping into the old carriage, the
cover of which was now lifted and tied into place. Then, when Ruth
joined her and Unc' Simmy climbed to his seat and spread the oilcloth
over his knees, she added, in a whisper: "I saw you, Ruth Fielding! Five
dollars! Talk about _me_ being extravagant. Why, I gave him only two
dollars for the whole ride."
"It was worth five to meet Miss Catalpa, wasn't it?" returned her chum,
placidly. And in her own mind she was already thinking up a scheme by
which the faithful old negro should be more substantially helped in his
lifework of caring for his blind mistress.