_"DEALINGS WITH THE SAMARITANS"_
There's something lovely about having a lovely time. Now I know that
looks like a very foolish sentence when one reads it over after having
written it down. So many sentences are like that; you think they're
strong, beautiful, full of meaning and bright with fancy, while you're
getting them out--then they appear so pale and thin when you look them
over. They're like the fish that you're playing in the water: "What a
whopper," you say, "I've got this time!"--but how thin and small when
it lies panting on the grass.
Yet I venture to repeat, as Mr. Furvell says in his sermons, I venture
to repeat: there's something lovely about having a lovely time. In
this, I mean, that it can never be taken away from you. There will,
you know, be cold, dark days, and bitter disappointments, and burning
tears, and emptiness of heart, till you quite forget that ever you were
glad. But, even so, all these can never rob you of that one hour, or
day, or month of pleasure unalloyed.
Mr. Laird used to say something like this in the long happy days that
followed his arrival. It had not been hard to persuade him to prolong
his visit. Fortunately for us, his friend Dr. Paine was engaged to go,
the very next week, to the meeting of the General Assembly at Dallas;
so it was arranged Mr. Laird should tarry with us till he returned,
perhaps longer--for I think it was about decided that he was to take up
mission work in Canada.
When I say those days were happy, I mean in a perfectly sane and
unfeverish kind of way, of course, with no thought of--of what every
woman looks for in every book she reads. That is, no calm and
courageous thought of it; although I shouldn't wonder if something of
that, more or less diluted, lies back of all real joy. Anyhow, Mr.
Laird said that very thing, and more than once, about the
unloseableness of one hour or day of real happiness. Whatever has been
before of pain, or whatever may be ahead of sorrow, he said, neither
the one nor the other can ever make pure gladness as if it had never
been. It belongs to you forever, said the Reverend Gordon Laird.
I should have known that I had no right to be so happy. For one thing,
Charlie had gone back to Savannah, and I should have been miserable
over that, if conscience had been half as faithful as it should have
been. Then, besides, he was waiting for my decision about Europe and
the yacht--and I had no claim to happiness till that was settled. And,
most of all, I wasn't sure about my love for him--very far from it--and
so I should have been quite wretched.
But I wasn't. I was shamefully happy. We were all happy, I think, to
see our visitor so thoroughly delighted with everything about him.
After all is said and done, American people take it as a compliment
when old-country folks seem to like them. I don't think we ever
forget, even the most democratic of us, that they have dukes and lords
across the sea. And Mr. Laird did seem so perfectly happy. For one
thing, the weather was delightful, and morning after morning found him
and me--there was no one else to act as cicerone--walking or driving
about the lovely haunts that surrounded our quiet little city.
Everything was in the glory of bud and blossom; fragrance was wafted on
every breeze; the wistaria and the yellow jasmine were gathered from a
thousand trees. Sometimes we had picnics too, making our way on our
asthmatic little launch up the winding river; sometimes we went
together to the oyster market at the wharf, where he seemed to be quite
enchanted with the negroes' singing. "On the other side of Jordan," I
remember, was a great favourite of his, and he used to get them to sing
it again and again.
Indeed, everything connected with negroes seemed to have a strange
fascination for Mr. Laird. This perplexed me considerably, and
mortified me not a little too. Of course, having spent all my life
among them, they were a commonplace lot to me, and I regarded them with
the kindly disdain which marks every Southern girl's attitude to the
negro race. But Mr. Laird seemed to find a new vein in them--and,
besides, he was so intensely human and so tremendously interested in
all human things. But he didn't know how volcanic was the ground he
walked on when he came into contact with the darkies; and I may as well
go aside here to tell how this provided the only jarring note in all
that memorable visit.
One day we were all on the piazza, engaged in that most delightful
occupation of waiting for dinner to be announced, catching savoury
whiffs the while that betokened its near approach. All of a sudden a
coal-black negress came through the back gate and stood at the foot of
the porch steps. Beside her stood a little curly-headed boy, about
three years of age, clinging to his mother's hand. She had been asking
for something at the kitchen door, I think--they were always asking for
something, those darkies. Of course we simply looked at her; I don't
believe uncle quite did that--I think he pretended to be reading a
newspaper. But Mr. Laird, in his impulsive way, went right down the
steps and began talking to the woman. It was really aggravating to see
how flattered she seemed to be by his attention. And then, to our
horror--clergyman as he was and in full ministerial dress--Mr. Laird
actually took that pickaninny up, and flung him onto his shoulder,
pretending to be a horse or something of that sort. And the little
negro dug his hands into Mr. Laird's ruddy locks, while his Anglo-Saxon
steed made an exhibition of himself, galloping once or twice around the
flower bed. The mother grinned with delight in a way that I knew
fairly maddened uncle.
When Mr. Laird finally returned, panting, to his chair, uncle had quite
a time controlling himself to speak.
"Do you know who that child is, sir?" said my uncle, keeping his voice
under fine control.
"No," said Mr. Laird, innocent of everything; "no, I never saw him
before--do you, Mr. Lundy?"
Uncle threw his newspaper on the floor without a word. Mr. Laird,
still all unconscious, meekly stooped and picked it up. "I guess I'd
better go and fix my hair before dinner," he said, running his fingers
through the startled thatch.
"You'd better wash your hands, sir," said my uncle sternly, oblivious
to muttered appeals from both Aunt Agnes and my mother; "I'll tell you
who that child is, sir--it's a coon."
"What?" said Mr. Laird, beginning to apprehend.
"It's a coon, sir," my uncle repeated, as sternly as if he had been
defining some cub of the jungle; "it's a nigger coon."
"Well?" said Mr. Laird, looking uncle very steadfastly in the eye.
"Well," echoed my uncle, "yes, well." Then he paused, but soon
gathered fresh strength. "And I hardly need to tell you, I presume,
sir, that it's not our custom to fondle darkey babies--they're supposed
to soil white hands, sir," he declared, waxing warm.
Mr. Laird looked innocently at his own. "It hasn't injured mine any,
Mr. Lundy," he said simply. "I don't quite understand what caused
the--the panic," he concluded, still looking very steadfastly at uncle.
"Well, then, sir, I may as well tell you plainly that such an action as
yours would be considered quite--quite improper, to say the least. We
don't take familiarities like that with negro children."
"It's a harmless enough looking little chap," responded Mr. Laird,
nodding towards the receding youngster. He was toddling along beside
his mother, his hand in hers.
"They're harmless enough while you keep them in their place, sir,"
retorted my uncle. "But you must know that our people down here have
their own way of doing that. And you don't understand the situation,
sir, you don't understand the situation," repeated Uncle Henry,
employing the favourite formula of the South. "For instance, I heard
you express surprise at something the other day. You remember when
Smallwood, the rector of the Coloured Episcopal Church, called to ask
Mrs. Lundy for a subscription--you seemed horrified that he went to the
back door, because he was a preacher and dressed up like a bishop."
Mr. Laird nodded.
"Well, sir, if he was the Archbishop of Canterbury--or the Pope of
Rome--the back door's the place for him--so long as that's the colour
of his skin. There isn't a self-respecting white family in the city
but would shut the front door in his face. You understand, sir?"
"I don't think any more of them for that," was the quiet retort of Mr.
Laird.
"That may be, sir. They'll stand your contempt, sir--but they won't
let a pack of negroes walk all over 'em," my uncle's gorge rising
again. "And I hope to God none of our neighbours saw you on the gallop
round our back yard with a negro brat astride of you. You'd be
finished here, sir, if they did. Just before that wench came in here
with her young 'un, I was going to tell you that I met Mr. Furvell, and
he asked me to give you an invitation, for him, to preach in our church
next Sunday. Well, sir, I hope it'll stand all right--but if it got
round town that you made a saddle-horse out of yourself for a nigger
whelp to ride, you'd have the church to yourself, sir; I reckon a few
old women might go to hear you, but you wouldn't have enough men there
to take up the collection."
"I can't do it, Mr. Lundy," said the minister, with amazing quietness.
"Can't do what?" demanded uncle.
"Can't preach for your friend," replied the other. "I'm engaged."
"Engaged for what?"
"Engaged to preach."
"Where?" said uncle, quite forgetful now of the debate. I think the
same question came in the same breath from my mother and Aunt Agnes.
"In the Coloured Methodist Church--I think they call it Zion," Mr.
Laird informed us calmly. "I was there the other day at a
funeral--pretty boisterous funeral it was, too--and the preacher got
hold of me. They took up a collection," Mr. Laird laughed, "and that
was how they located me. I didn't have anything but a shilling--a
quarter, you call it. Well, he invited me to preach for him next
Sabbath, and I agreed. So I won't be able to oblige Mr. Furvell."
"You agreed, sir?"
"Yes, Mr. Lundy, I agreed," repeated the stoical Scotchman.
"Good God!" said my Uncle Henry. My uncle was not a profane man--but
this was something extra.
"Don't get excited, Henry, don't," began my mother; "Mr. Laird can
easily change all that--he can get released from his engagement. He
didn't know we wanted him in our church."
"I'm not excited, ma'am," puffed my uncle; "I was never calmer in my
life--but the thing's preposterous, madam. It's utterly absurd--it's
ridiculous."
"Yes, yes," broke in my Aunt Agnes, "of course, it's the easiest thing
in the world to arrange. All Mr. Laird has to do is to explain to that
coloured preacher that----"
"But I can't," interrupted Mr. Laird; "that is, I won't." The word
fell strangely on the ears of Southern ladies. "I gave him my
promise--and that's the end of it. I'll preach in Zion Church--or
whatever they call it--next Sabbath morning. If the Lord will," he
added, with what appeared to us all quite superfluous piety. I didn't
know then that Scotch people never take any chances.
"But you don't realize what you're doing, sir," remonstrated my uncle;
"you fail to realize----"
"I'm doing what no man will prevent," broke in our visitor, and his eye
was flashing like the diamond on my finger; "I'm going to preach the
Gospel to them, if I get the chance."
"That's all right," began my uncle, "that's all right in its way,
but----"
"What's all right in its way?" demanded the Reverend Gordon Laird, his
voice quite resounding now.
"That's all right--that Gospel business," explained my uncle, evidently
a little at a loss. "The Gospel's all right in its place, but----
"Thank you," gave back Mr. Laird, his strong Scotch lip trembling,
"you're very magnanimous, sir."
"But you don't know what you're exposing yourself to," pursued my
uncle, apparently deaf to Mr. Laird's retort. "They'll make a fool of
you in the pulpit, sir. I'll tell you something, sir. Your sermon
will be wasted. We had a man here once--a white man--an evangelist,
who expected to move on anyhow. And he tried this little trick of
yours--he preached to those coons in their own church one day. And I
heard later how they made a fool of him. He preached about folks
having to use the means. Good sermon, too, sir. But he was no sooner
through than the nigger preacher got up after him--and he said he'd
give them a little illustration. Then he told them a ribald yarn, sir,
right in the church; said he and his ten-year-old brother were in bed
once, and they heard their mother telling their father of some
devilment they'd been up to; and the father said he'd go up-stairs when
he had finished his supper. Well, this nigger preacher went on to say
he got up to pray--but his brother--his brother believed in using the
means; and so he said he wouldn't pray, but he'd get up and put
something on. That's what he told them, sir--an indecent tale--and the
white preacher had to sit and hear it," concluded my uncle, his cheeks
burning with indignation.
"I won't give the black brother a chance to illustrate," said Mr. Laird
stolidly; "I'll close the service when I'm through." Then he laughed.
"You're trifling with me, sir," said my Uncle Henry chokingly, rising
as he spoke. I saw the quick pallor come to the cheek of my Aunt
Agnes; as for my mother, she was fairly trembling. As for me--well, I
was terrified.
But just at this crisis a remarkable thing occurred. Mr. Laird didn't
seem to notice my uncle's movement at all. Indeed, he was not looking
in his direction, but sat gazing intently out towards the road that ran
down to the river and the bridge. Involuntarily my eyes followed his,
and a moment sufficed to reveal the object of his interest. For down
the road towards us there crept a fragile figure, swaying unsteadily,
overborne with weakness and her heavy load. This too was a negro
woman, but cast in finer mould than the stalwart black who had
disappeared from view. The one who had just hove in sight, as I could
see even at that distance, was a comely creature, more white than
black, but yet bearing the fatal hue.
She was heavy laden, as I have implied. One arm bore a great bundle
enclosed in a white sheet--laundry, doubtless--while on the other she
carried a plump and complacent infant, crowing as it came, in that fine
oblivion of weight which marks the procession of the heaviest babies
everywhere. The young mother was pressing towards the river; a rusty
skiff lay beside the bridge, in which, no doubt, she was to make her
way to the negro settlement on the farther shore. She seemed ready to
faint from the fatigue of her double burden, yet she pressed on with
almost rapid steps, as if she must keep up till she reached the boat.
It was this that had attracted the attention of Mr. Laird, so rapt in
observance that he evidently did not mark my uncle's movements. For
the latter had hardly risen before our visitor sprang quickly to his
feet--I can see him now, the tall black-robed figure, with high brow
and auburn hair--and strode down swiftly towards the road. Another
moment brought him alongside of the exhausted negress, whose white eyes
could be seen wearily surveying him as he approached. Without a word
he seized both burdens from her arms, the baby held high aloft as he
led the way down to the boat. The mother straightened herself and
followed closely, as if she had taken a new lease of life--it was not
all due to the burdens she had lost, I'm sure--and the heavy baby
crowed with delight at this improved style of locomotion. When,
lo--_miserabile dictu!_ as I learned in Virgil--this second pickaninny,
with that tonsorial instinct which seems to mark the race, plunged its
pudgy fingers where those of its predecessor had held high revel one
brief half hour agone, squealing for very joy as it clutched the auburn
mane of the Reverend Gordon Laird.
"Don't that beat the--the Dutch?" muttered my Uncle Henry from the
porch, gazing at the tall and supple form, the now laughing and half
boyish face, as our guest strode on towards the river, the baby and the
bale like feathers in his arms. A funny smile was on uncle's face,
half of contempt, half of admiration. "Those two brats both into his
hair!" he murmured to himself--"and I sure enough got into his wool,"
as the grin deepened on his face.
He stood gazing. Then, recalling his sacred principles, he broke out
anew: "Good heavens, he's going over to Slabtown with her," for our
undaunted guest had by this time landed the bale in the bow of the
skiff. Still holding the baby high, he took the woman's hand and
helped her over the gunwale into the boat. A moment later we could see
his shirt-sleeves glistening in the sun, he himself seated in the
middle of the skiff, starting to pull vigorously for the other shore.
"Let him go," said my uncle between his teeth; "he's chosen his company
and he can have it. By heavens," he went on hotly, "I was never so
insulted in my life. What the--the dickens kind of a man is this
Scotchman anyhow?--I've seen men shot for less than this. I remember
once in Texas----"
"But, Henry," ventured my Aunt Agnes, "you shouldn't be so hard on
him--he doesn't understand our----"
"Then why the devil doesn't he keep his mouth shut?" snorted my uncle;
"comin' down here--like those infernal Yankees--an' tryin' to teach us
how to run our niggers. I've seen men reach for their hip pockets for
less'n that," declared my uncle, glaring round the circle.
"Now, now, Henry," said my mother gently, "that'll do, Henry. You're
not much of an assassin--you know that. Besides, you can't help
admiring his pluck, can you, now?"
"He's too ---- plucky," muttered Uncle Henry, gazing at the now distant
boat. Then followed a season of calm, broken only by the soft voices
of my aunt and mother as they tried to pour oil on the troubled waters.
"And what do you say? What's your opinion of your Gordon Laird--and
his nigger friends?" uncle suddenly demanded, turning on me as stern an
eye as dear old uncle could ever treat me to. I had not yet spoken.
"Do you want to know?" said I, straightening up.
"That's what I asked you for--what makes you so white?"
"I don't know. But I think he's glorious--just glorious," I said,
looking very straight at uncle. "And I don't care who knows it," I
added. I believe I stood up as I spoke--and I could feel my eyes
flashing. "And you were horrid to him," I cried, my voice trembling.
"Helen," my mother broke in reproachfully, "you forget yourself, Helen.
And do you know you're taking up with a stranger, against your uncle?"
But the latter didn't seem to hear what my mother said. He was staring
at me in a way that let me know the battle was won. He was a true
Southerner, was uncle, and if anything in the world appealed to him, it
was courage. Yet he had by no means surrendered.
"Then you can meet him when he comes back," he said slowly in a minute,
nodding towards the river; "you can meet him and say good-bye for the
rest of us. You'll make our farewells to him, you see. And tell him
the world is wide--you can remember that, can't you, Helen?"
I smiled up into uncle's face. "I won't say good-bye for anybody but
Helen Randall," I replied, speaking just as slowly as he had done, "but
I'll do that--if I have to. And I'll tell him--I'll tell him," I
repeated, gazing down the sunlit river towards the sea, "that the world
isn't so wide after all." And I know not why, but a strange thrill
swept over me from head to foot; for the day was beautiful, and the
fleecy clouds were overhead, and the air was laden with the sweet
breath of flowers, and God's sunlight was on the river--and the river
flowed on in silence to the sea.
Uncle Henry turned away and presently began a little pace up and down
the piazza. Fragments of the storm could still be heard: "Preach the
Gospel, indeed--act as assistant to a nigger. A pretty pass, when our
guests turn nurse for darkey coons--the attic's too small for him now,"
as he crossed and recrossed the porch's sounding floor.
Presently he stopped and looked out over the river. The rest of us did
not need to look--we had been watching all the time. And, away at the
end of the long bridge--it was one of the longest in the state, nearly
a mile--we could just descry the moving figure, all in black again, of
our returning guest. He was coming back afoot, leaving the skiff to
its owners.
Aunt Agnes took advantage of a long silence on uncle's part. "Well,"
she said, "I guess I'll order dinner served; we can't wait any longer."
"That's what I say," agreed my mother; "we may just as well go
on--it'll be better anyhow," she added significantly.
"What?" said my Uncle Henry, turning round and looking at us.
"We were just saying we wouldn't wait dinner any longer," was the
explanation, "and anyhow, 'twould be better to go on--ourselves.
Considering everything, you know," and my Aunt Agnes sighed.
Uncle stopped still and straightened himself up. "There'll be no
dinner till he comes," he said firmly, "if it's an hour. I hope I
don't forget what's due to a guest," as he looked gravely round the
circle, "and especially a stranger in a strange land." This was said
with the air of a king and a very noble king at that.
"Call Lyn," he said suddenly to me.
I did so. "Where are those niggers anyhow?" he asked impatiently as he
waited for her to appear. "I reckon they've all been watching the
procession," jerking his thumb towards the river. "Oh, here she is,"
as the sable attendant pattered onto the porch. "Lyn, make me a
mint-julep--make it good."
"Yes, sah!" said the vanishing servant.
"Lyn! Oh, Lyn," he called again in an instant.
"Yes, sah; heah I is, sah!"
"Make two mint-juleps--and make them both good."