SAM AND ADAH
It was Saturday night again, and Adah, with heavy eyes and throbbing
head, sat bending over the dazzling silk, which 'Lina had coaxed her to
make.
'Lina could be very gracious when she chose, and as she saw a way by
which Adah might be useful to her, she chose to be so now, and treated
the unsuspecting girl so kindly, that Adah promised to undertake the
task, which proved a harder one than she had anticipated. Anxious to
gratify 'Lina, and keep what she was doing a secret from Hugh, who came
to the cottage often, she was obliged to work early and late, bending
over the dress by the dim candlelight until her head seemed bursting
with pain, and rings of fire danced before her eyes. She never would
have succeeded but for Uncle Sam, who proved a most efficient member of
the household, fitting in every niche and corner, until Aunt Eunice,
with all her New England aversion to negroes, wondered how she had ever
lived without him. Particularly did he attach himself to Willie,
relieving Adah from all care, and thus enabling her to devote every
spare moment to the party dress.
"You'se workin' yourself to death," he said to her, as late on Saturday
night she sat bending to the tallow candle, her hair brushed back from
her forehead and a purplish glow upon her cheek.
"I know I'm working too hard," she said. "I'm very tired, but Monday is
the party. Oh, I am so hot and feverish," and, as if even the slender
chain of gold about her neck were a burden, she undid the clasp, and
laid upon the stand the locket which had so interested Hugh.
Naturally inquisitive Sam took it in his hand, and touching the spring
held it to the light, uttering an exclamation of surprise.
"Dat's de bery one, and no mistake," he said, his old withered face
lighting up with eager joy.
"Who is she, Sam?" Adah asked, forgetting her work in her new interest.
"Miss Ellis. I done forgot de other name. Ellis they call her way down
thar whar Sam was sold, when dat man with the big splot on his forerd
like that is on your'n steal me away and sell me in Virginny. Miss, ever
hearn tell o' dat? We thinks he's takin' a bee line for Canada, when
fust we knows we's in ole Virginny, and de villain not freein' us at
all. He sell us. Me he most give away, 'case I was so old, and the mas'r
who buy some like Mas'r Hugh, he pity, he sorry for ole shaky nigger.
Sam tell him on his knees how he comed from Kaintuck, but Mas'r Sullivan
say he bought 'em far, and that the right mas'r sell 'em sneakin' like
to save rasin' a furse, and he show a bill of sale. They believe him
spite of dis chile, and so Sam 'long to anodder mas'r."
"Yes; but the lady, Miss Ellis. Where did you find her?" Adah asked, and
Sam replied:
"I'se comin' to her d'rectly. Mas'r Fitzhugh live on big plantation--big
house, too, with plenty company; and one day she comed, with great
trunk, a visitin' you know. She'd been to school with Miss Mabel, Mas'r
Fitzhugh's daughter."
"Are you sure it's the same?" Adah asked.
"Yes, miss, Sam sure, he 'members them curls--got a heap of 'em; and
that neck--oh, wear that neck berry low, so low, so white, it make even
ole Sam feel kinder, kinder, yes, Sam feel very much that way."
Adah could not repress a smile, but she was too much interested to
interrupt him, and he went on:
"They all think heap of Miss Ellis, and I hear de blacks tellin' how she
berry rich, and comed from way off thar wher white niggers
live--Masser-something."
"Massachusetts?" suggested Adah.
"Yes; that's the very mas'r, I 'member dat."
"Was Ellis her first or last name?" Adah asked, and Sam replied:
"It was neider, 'twas her Christian name. I'se got mizzable memory, and
I disremembers her last name. The folks call her Ellis, and the blacks
Miss Ellis."
"A queer name for a first one," Adah thought, while Sam continued:
"She jest like bright angel, in her white gownds and dem long curls, and
Sam like her so much. She promise to write to Mas'r Browne and tell him
whar I is. I didn't cry loud then--heart too full. I cry whimperin'
like, and she cry, too. Then she tell me about God, and Sam listen, oh,
listen so much, for that's what he want to hear so long. Miss Nancy, in
Kuntuck, be one of them that reads her pra'rs o' Sundays, and ole mas'r
one that hollers 'em. Sam liked that way best, seemed like gettin' along
and make de Lord hear, but it don't show Sam the way, and when the
ministers come in, he listen, but they that reads and them that hollers
only talk about High and Low--Jack and the Game, or something, Sam
disremembers so bad; got mizzable memory. He only knows he not find the
way, 'till Miss Ellis tells him of Jesus, once a man and always God.
It's very queer, but Sam believe it, and then she sing, 'Come unto me.'
You ever hear it?"
Adah nodded, and Sam went on.
"But you never hear Miss Ellis sing it. Oh, so fine, the very rafters
hold their breff, and Sam find the way at last."
"Where is Miss Ellis now?" Adah asked, and Sam replied:
"Gone to Masser--what you say once. She gived me five dollars and then
ask what else. I look at her and say, 'Sam wants a spear or two of yer
shinin' hair,' and Miss Mabel takes shears and cut a little curl. I'se
got 'em now. I never spend the money," and from an old leathern wallet
Sam drew a bill and a soft silken curl, which he laid across Adah's
hand.
"Yes, that is like her hair," Adah said, gazing fondly upon the tiny
lock which was Sam's greatest earthly treasure; then, returning it to
him, she asked: "And where is that Sullivan?" a chill creeping over her
as she remembered how about four years ago the man she called her
guardian was absent for some time, and came back to her with colored
hair and whiskers.
"Oh, he gone long before, nobody know whar. Sam b'lieves, though, he
hear they tryin' to cotch him, but disremembers, got such mizzable
memory."
"You say he had a mark like mine?" Adah continued.
"Yes, berry much, but more so. Show plainer when he cussin' mad, just as
yours show more when you tired. Whar you git dat?" and Sam bent down to
inspect more closely Adah's birthmark.
"I don't know. I was born with it," and Adah half groaned aloud at the
sad memories which Sam's story had awakened within her.
She could scarcely doubt that Sullivan, the negro-stealer, and Monroe,
her guardian, were the same, but where was he now, and why had he
treated her so treacherously, when he had always seemed so kind?
"Miss Adah prays," the old man answered. "Won't she say 'Our Father'
with Sam?"
Surely Hugh's sleep was sweeter that night for the prayer breathed by
the lowly negro, and even the wild tumult in Adah's heart was hushed by
Sam's simple, childlike faith that God would bring all right at last.
Early on Monday afternoon 'Lina, taking advantage of Hugh's absence,
came over for her dress, finding much fault, and requiring some of the
work to be done twice ere it suited her. Without a murmur Adah obeyed,
but when the last stitch was taken and the party dress was gone, her
overtaxed frame gave way, and Sam himself helped her to her bed, where
she lay moaning, with the blinding pain in her head, which increased so
fast that she scarcely saw the tempting little supper which Aunt Eunice
brought, asking her to eat. Of one thing, however, she was conscious,
and that of the dark form bending over her pillow and whispering
soothingly the passage which had once brought Heaven to him, "Come unto
me, come unto me, and I will give you rest."
The night had closed in dark and stormy, and the wintry rain beat
fiercely against the windows; but for this Sam did not hesitate a moment
when at midnight Aunt Eunice, alarmed at Adah's rapidly increasing
fever, asked if he could find his way to Spring Bank.
"In course," he could, and in a few moments the old, shriveled form was
out in the darkness, groping its way over fences, and through the
pitfalls, stumbling often, and losing his hat past recovery, so that the
snowy hair was dripping wet when at last Spring Bank was reached and he
stood upon the porch.
In much alarm Hugh dressed himself and hastened to the cottage. But Adah
did not know him and only talked of dresses and parties, and George,
whom she begged to come back and restore her good name.