“No, we ain’t a’needin’ any more hands right now,” said Polly Ann in a
brisk, business-like voice that discouraged prolixity on the part of the
loitering applicant whom Polly knew to be unreliable from a working point
of view, for he bore all the outward marks of shiftlessness which her
eyes had been trained to discern at one comprehensive glance.
“I reckon I’d as well wait an’ see the boss,” was the hopeful answer.
“It won’t do no good to wait, ’cause he ain’t got no work for you,” Polly
reiterated with dry patience. “’Sides, the boss is too busy to waste any
time outside o’ business.”
“Oh, well, then I’ll call again,” the applicant observed amiably. He
shuffled out, hands in pockets, and Polly Ann eased back in her chair
behind the railed-in desk that overlooked the long rows of pallid,
expressionless faces bowed over the spindles that whirred monotonously
through the dull roar of machinery. Polly was used to the noise; its
absence, during the brief Sunday rests, made her nerves ache dimly as
if their rightful functions had been forcibly suspended, for she had
grown up within the mills. Her mother had been first to succumb to the
insidious fever which sooner or later fastens upon the unsound, poorly
nourished slaves of the great White Despot known to the world as the
Southern Cotton Mill industry. Polly’s young sister had followed their
mother to her quiet rest within a year, after which the overburdened,
inadequate father “aimed” to return to the upland, clayey farm which he
had so hopefully abandoned two years before; but before he could save
enough money to cover his debts he added to his burdens by marrying a
factory widow with four pallid, old-young children. Polly lived with
them until they moved to Atlanta in hopes of financial betterment, then
she assumed the brunt of home-making for her two undisciplined brothers.
Meanwhile, her industry had increased as her thin, deft fingers became
more and more proficient. Her interest in her fellow-slaves broadened
into a mute, protective supervision which the keen-witted boss recognized
and rewarded by placing her in a position of trust which, humble though
it was, relieved her of the bitter grind of mill labor.
Spring was in the air. It looked in at the dim windows and drifted
through the open doors where the sunlight drenched the worn, splintered
floor with fine gold. Polly recognized something familiar—the sweet,
far-reaching scent of wild azaleas that grew thick and tall along the
distant Chattahoochee hill; she closed her eyes and let her fancy drift
back to the green pastures and still waters of the old haunts of her
heart’s desire, until her revery was shattered by a human appeal.
It was a sunny young voice that recalled Polly to tangible things, and
it belonged to a very young girl of the “cracker” type, with a face
of spring-like innocence, who introduced herself as “Mis’ Lomux, from
Lumpkin,” with a smile of such irresistible sweetness that Polly’s thin,
sallow face lighted with answering pleasure.
“You-all’s got a job fer me this time, ain’t you?” the stranger asked
anxiously. “I was here last Chuesday, an’ the boss said he ’lowed he’d
have a place fer me by today. I aimed to git here right soon this mornin’
so’s to start work on time, but the chillun give out in spite of all I
could do, an’ I was jest obleeged to stop along with ’em at a house
where the folks promised to keep ’em till they got rested.”
“The boss is right busy now,” said Polly in very kind voice. “I don’t
much believe he needs any more hands, ’cause he tuk in a new batch
Saturday, but you can wait an’ see what he says. Set down an’ rest
yourself till he comes along.”
“He surely will give me _somethin’_ to do,” Mis’ Lomux said hopefully,
“’cause he done promised he would.”
“Well, mebbe he will, then. Did you ever work in a mill afore?”
“No’m, but I can learn real fast. They say ’tain’t hard.”
“No, ’tain’t to say hard, but it’s turrible wearin’,” Polly answered.
“You don’t look real stout, nuther.”
“That’s one reason why I come,” Mis’ Lomux admitted frankly, “though I’m
stout a’ plenty to putter all day without restin’ any bit. Last fall I
was tuk with a spell o’ fever an’ sence then I jest ain’t been able to do
like I uster. Plowin’ an’ sech-like beats me plum out in no time. I tried
my best to take Tobe’s place after he left, but I jest couldn’t make out
no way.”
“Who’s Tobe?” Polly interrupted with deepening interest. “Your brother?”
“No’m, he’s my husband.”
“Your husband!” Polly echoed surprisedly. “You look dreadful young to be
married. How long _have_ you been married?”
“Be ten weeks on Sunday,” the bride replied unenthusiastically.
“An’ he’s left you a’ready!”
“Yes’m.” Mis’ Lomux nodded her blond head solemnly. “He done broke his
promise an’—an’ I don’t aim to live with him no more, ever.”
Polly Ann searched the flower-like face with something akin to pity. “You
ain’t a’ carin,’ are you?” she asked in a whisper.
Mis’ Lomux’s denial was emphatic, but unconvincing. “I ’lowed all
husbands was like pa,” she admitted sadly, “an’ that’s why I married Tobe
so quick after he axed me. You see when pa died that throwed me an’ the
chillun onto the county, with me not able to do fer ’em like I would
a’ been if I hadn’t had the fever. What to do I didn’t know ’cause the
chillun couldn’t work by their selves to do any good. When Tobe Lomux
sent me word that he’d tak the hull lot of us if I’d have him, I was
glad enough to marry him on that account, no matter what come. Not that
I got ary thing agin Tobe—no one ain’t fer that matter,” she interrupted
herself to say extenuatingly, “for he’s a real steady, honest person.
Tobe’s high-tempered, though. Fust thing I knowed his folks come meddlin’
round talkin’ about him havin’ to do fer a’ passel o’ lazy chilluns an’
sech-like an’ it warn’t no time fore Tobe had put the chilluns to work
like a gang o’ niggers. Me! Why, I jest couldn’t stand that not fer a
minit! I up an’ told Tobe to hire his own niggers or quit us, ’cause
them pore chillun warn’t goin’ to be nobody’s slaves. An’ he went”; she
finished, growing very white and cold.
“He warn’t much or he wouldn’t a’ acted that way,” was Polly’s stern
verdict.
The bride winced. “I aim to show ’im we can git on without him an’ his
uppidy folks,” she retorted, with a flame of delicate color. “That’s why
I come here, jest to make a livin’ fer us all till I can stouten up agin
crap-making time next spring. By that time the two little boys’ll be big
enough to help with the plowin’. Boys grows a heap in a year.”
“Did you say you brung the chillun along with you?” Polly wanted to know.
“Yes’m, we all set out together yesterday mornin’. Tain’t to say so
dreadful fur—jest eighteen miles—but they ain’t used to travelin’ steady,
an’ they give plum out early this mornin’, so I left ’em along with some
folks while I come on ahead to git work.”
Polly Ann’s interest was of a keenly personal order, which admitted of
vast concessions in favor of the second applicant for the already crowded
ranks of mill laborers. She had turned the first comer away almost at
sight, but Mis’ Lomux was different—her plaintive needs appealed to
Polly Ann’s warm, starved little heart in a fashion quite unknown to her
since her mother and sister had passed beyond her faithful care.
“Where’s your things?” Polly asked after a museful pause.
“We’re totin’ all we’ve got,” Mis’ Lomux answered frankly. “Pa didn’t
have much of anythin’ when he died an’ I sold what little there was to
git the chillun fit close to come down here in.”
Polly rose and stepped from the little platform with an air of decision.
“You set there while I go hunt the boss,” said she.
So Mis’ Lomux waited hopefully until Polly returned from the fore part of
the great building to say that there would be a vacancy in the spindle
department the very next day. “You’d better fetch the chillun right
along,” Polly advised, “’cause you’ll have to be ready to go to work at
seven o’clock tomorrow mornin’. There’s a’ empty shack at the end of
Factory Row that you can rent real cheap. I’ll see about rentin’ it while
you’re gone.”
Polly saw them pass the mills late that afternoon, a dusty, tired band of
wayfarers, each carrying small, queer-shaped bundles which contained the
sum of their meager possessions, and felt herself glow with satisfaction
as she thought of what she had contrived to put into the rough little
shack, in the way of household furnishings. She went over after work
hours to assist with the setting to rights.
By the end of the first week Mis’ Lomux and the two little boys, who were
to help with the next year’s crop, had obtained steady employment in the
mills. Their bright faces gleamed out among the listless, pallid, faded
faces of the “old hands,” with primrose freshness that attracted Polly
Ann’s eyes many, many times during the long noisy day; but soon their
morning glow waned and the difference grew less and less marked except
for Mis’ Lomux’s illuminating smile which never dimmed or wavered, early
or late, while the little loved faces turned towards hers. The delicately
rounded girlish figure grew thin, and Mis’ Lomux drooped more and more
just as Polly’s mother and sister had drooped before doom overtook them,
yet never a word escaped her patient lips. There was, indeed, no time
for self-pity, for all her thoughts were centered upon the children whom
she sheltered from every harsh word and look with a maternal zeal that
never failed of its loving purpose, in spite of the children’s wilfulness
apparent to every one but Mary Lomux. Polly realized shrewdly how it had
been with Tobe, whose judgment had lacked the softening influence of
love, for although the children were of naturally lovable disposition,
Mary had undeniably spoiled them from a man’s view-point.
Every Sunday morning Mis’ Lomux piloted her little flock away to the
hills which seemed to beckon her far beyond the noise and smoke and
grime of Factory Row to the place of her heart’s desire. Polly Ann often
accompanied her friend because the occasion afforded opportunity to add
to the meager lunches in a manner that lapped over several succeeding
meals. On such occasions the girls talked continually of the tranquil,
humble joys of home, while the children lay in the grass, too tired to
play or chatter. Mary comforted their weariness with a promise of a
speedy reprieve.
“We’re goin’ home in the spring, sure,” she would say with illuminating
smiles, “an’ when you’ve been there a day or two you’ll plum fergit about
ever feelin’ puny or tired. Jest keep lookin’ t’wards home.”
But the event seemed to recede. Summer’s golden glory paled before
autumn’s riper loveliness, and the air grew pungent with harvest
fragrance that made Mis’ Lomux’s heart sick with longing. Polly noticed
that her friend was losing ground daily, but there was no help for her at
the mills, and Mary would not hear of returning to the fallow farm before
the growing season began.
“I jest couldn’t bear to let the chilluns go to the poor farm,” she said
yearningly. “Folks’d always have that to throw up to ’em when they growed
up. An’ there’s them Lomuxes! They’d talk wuss’n anybody.”
During the late autumn one of the boys met with an accident which kept
Mary from work for several days and drained her slender savings to the
last nickle. Then winter came with its chill continuous rains, when the
mills, always dull and somber, grew doubly gloomy. Doors and windows
were kept closed and the prisoned air grew more and more poisonous as
the workers exhaled it over and over. Mary protected her boys as well as
possible. She had made herself so well-liked by her fellow-workers that
no one interfered with her many little devices for the children’s comfort
and no one manifested the ill-will which is so generally exhibited
towards favorites; for it was impossible to be harsh toward the brave
little woman who fought so desperately against losing odds. Toward spring
Mis’ Lomux was obliged occasionally to take a day off on account of
blinding headaches.
“’Tain’t nothin’ at all,” she invariably protested, in answer to Polly’s
anxious questions. “Folks that’s had the fever ginerally feel this way
every year about the same time. When the weather gits warmer I’ll be
stout as ever.”
But Polly knew better. She had seen that look of deadly weariness too
often to be deceived.
“Ain’t you never heard from Tobe?” Polly asked one evening when she sat
on the steps of Mary’s shack watching her friend’s strenuous attempts to
hold herself erect while she patched a pair of faded little trousers.
Mary bowed her head very low as she answered, “No.”
“Where’s he at?”
“In Atlanta, workin’ in the engine shops, an’ doin’ well; his maw told
Billy Sanders a while back.”
“An’ he knows you’re down here slavin’ like a nigger for all them
chillun?”
“I reckon he does, ’cause his maw writes to him.”
“Then all I’ve got to say is that he must be a turrible no-count feller
to let his wife—”
“’Tain’t his fault,” Mary flung back, lifting her deathly pale face for
a moment. “It’s them Lomuxes that made all the trouble to start with. If
his maw hadn’t found fault with the chillun he never would a’ done what
he did.”
“If you knowed that, what made you send him off?” Polly wanted to know.
“I jest couldn’t stand the thought of Tom bein’ teched by nobody. None
of them chillun ever had a hand laid onto ’em afore, an’ I couldn’t bear
that they should—ever!”
“Well, ’tain’t none of my business, of course,” said Polly drily, “but I
_will_ say that if Tobe was half a man even, he’d do his part now that
you need him so bad.”
“He couldn’t—not after what I said,” Mary protested mournfully. “I
told him never to come back no more till Kingdom-come, an’ he said he
wouldn’t—not if I begged him on my dyin’ bed!”
“My land, what a mean sperited feller he must be!” Polly exclaimed
contemptuously. “I wonder the Lord didn’t punish him for sech talk. In my
opinion, Mary, you’re a heap better off without him than you’d be with
him.”
Mary’s head drooped very low over her work, but in spite of that Polly
saw the tears that fell on the little patched garments. There was a long
silence during which Polly hated Tobe Lomux as heartily as she pitied
Mary. Then she delivered herself of a bit of advice that had burned
within her heart for weeks. “If I was you, Mary, I’d give up an’ let the
county take care of me—jest for a little spell. You ain’t able to work
another day, an’ to tell you the truth I don’t believe you’ll be let work
much longer, ’cause the boss has noticed how bad you look. I’ll git the
circuit-rider to speak a good word for you at the poor farm so’s they’ll
give you a little shack off to yourself.”
“Oh Polly, I couldn’t go—I couldn’t!” Mary cried chokingly. “For myself
it wouldn’t matter _what_ come, but the chillun—they would always be
looked down on fer livin’ at a poor farm.”
“What’s to become of ’em if anything bad was to happen to you, I’d like
to know?” asked practical Polly. “You’ve done for ’em an’ humored ’em
till they’re sorter spoiled. They couldn’t git along with strangers. The
poor farm’s the only thing, Mary. I don’t doubt but that you’ll be stout
enough by next spring to go back to the farm an’ make a crop, but you
won’t if you stay here.”
“I’ll rest up a bit,” said Mary dejectedly. “We can git along on what the
boys makes for a few days an’ by that time I’ll be stout enough to go
back to work.”
But in that surmise Mary was mistaken. On the fourth day when she resumed
her place at the reels, outraged nature succumbed completely to the long
strain, and she dropped in a dead faint among her whirling spools. That
happened the day before Polly was to go on a long advertised excursion
to Atlanta, and, although Mary was quite ill on the eventful morning,
Polly did not offer to stay with her friend but hurried through her
gala preparations in great excitement. She looked thinner and paler and
smaller than ever in her unaccustomed finery.
“I’ll fetch you a little somethin’ from Atlanta, if I git time to go to
the stores,” Polly promised, while she waited on Mary’s porch for the
hack to gather up its fluttering load along Factory Row.
Polly left the crowded train at Atlanta and hurried off in search of the
engine shops. She had little difficulty in locating Tobe Lomux, whose
industry had made him quite a favorite there. He was a sturdy, well-built
young fellow with a good, honest face and a firm undimpled chin that
bespoke a will of iron. He looked at little frail, anxious Polly as if
she were something too insignificant for serious notice.
“I’m a friend of Mary Lomux’s,” Polly began with a furiously beating
heart, for her hopes had dwindled discouragingly during her long, worried
ride, “an’ I’ve come to find out if you aim to leave her die without
doin’ a thing to prevent it.”
“Mary—die!” Tobe’s head went back with a wrench that sent the blood
bounding to his face. “What’s that about Mary?” he asked gruffly.
“Don’t you know that she’s killin’ herself at the cotton mills down at
Gainesville, workin’ for them chillun? Ain’t nobody wrote an’ told you
that, Tobe Lomux?”
Tobe ignored the question. “Did Mary send you to me?” he asked in a voice
that Polly misinterpreted.
“No, she didn’t. She’s got too much grit for that even if she is too sick
to hold up her head. I didn’t have much hopes of gittin’ any satisfaction
from you, judgin’ by the way you’ve acted, but I thought I’d try jest
onct. What I want to know, Tobe Lomux, is if you’re goin’ to let her
die—or not?”
“Me! Why, good Lord, what can I do? If Mary wanted me I’d—I’d—Well, she
don’t, that’s all.”
“Mary didn’t send for you,” Polly broke in eagerly, “but if you’re
any sort of a man you’ll drop that spike an’ take the fust train to
Gainesville. That’s what you’d do, if——”
The tool dropped from Tobe’s grimy hand, and his head and shoulders went
back defiantly. “I’m goin’ right back along with you,” he said, jerking
off his leather apron and shaking down his sleeves. “Wait till I draw my
pay. We can talk on the train.”
Polly remembered that homeward ride to her dying day, for it was the
first time in her defrauded life that she had been brought face to face
with a great passion whose very crudeness added to its strength. Tobe had
held himself with grim, fearful ardor to his labor, while his stubborn
aching heart yearned for one word of reconciliation from Mary. His
mother had written strange, slighting things relating to the blighting
factory life that Tobe abhorred, and he had waited and Mary had suffered
in silence. Before the train reached Gainesville Tobe’s busy brain had
evolved a plan which he confided to Polly while they stood on the station
platform waiting for the country stage which was to take Tobe up to
Lumpkin that very afternoon.
“I’ll be down by noon tomorrer, sure,” was his parting promise.
Polly paid a brief visit to Mary’s shack when she reached Factory Row,
fearing to stay long lest her secret should escape her eager lips. She
was tired, she explained so tersely that the sick girl felt hurt and
neglected. The following day Polly appeared at sunrise.
“I don’t aim to work today,” she announced, “so I may as well set with
you, Mary. You jest lemme fix you up on the porch where you can git the
air while I red up the house a bit.”
Mary was too listless to object, so she dragged herself out to the narrow
porch where the warm spring sunshine drenched the rough boards with a
golden flood, upon which the blossomed torches of the cypress vine made
small, dancing shadows.
“Ain’t it a turrible pretty day!” Polly exclaimed glowingly. “Makes me
think of way up in Lumpkin, don’t it you?”
“I jest can’t bear to think of it at all!” Mary wailed, with a yearning
glance toward the far, golden hills.
“I’ll bet the honeysuckles is jest thick all over them river hills by
now. Don’t you rec’lect how blue the bottoms looked along about this time
when the dog vi’lets is out full?”
“It’s time to lay off the cotton fields,” Mary murmured. “Polly, if
anything should happen to me, you’ll see that the chillun keeps together
at the poor farm, won’t you?”
“Shucks, you’re goin’ to get well—that’s what’s goin’ to happen to you,
Mary Lomux. Now lie still and rest while I straighten up the house.”
Mary lay quite still for a long, long while, looking toward home with
a great wistfulness in her weary eyes and a dark fear in her heart. By
and by a wagon turned across the bare, sun-baked flat that separated
Mary’s shack from the factory grounds and stopped at the head of
Factory Row. It was spotlessly new, even to the snowy bow-sheet, and
the household furnishings visible through the shirred opening were new,
also. Mary saw the driver spring down lightly and throw the reins over
a broken gatepost. Then Tobe stumbled up the steps, dully ashamed of
his unconquerable emotion, for he came of a race who count it unmanly
to betray any outward sign of feeling. But it was impossible for him to
speak calmly.
“I didn’t have no idee you was sick, Mary,” said he shakingly. “I’m real
glad Polly come an’ told me about it. I thought I’d drop in an’ see how
you’s comin’ on, jest to be neighborly,” he added in a voice that seemed
to come from a great distance.
Mary struggled up with a smothered cry, but fell back weakly among the
pillows and cried instead of answering, while Polly stared helpless from
the doorway and Tobe wrestled with his heart’s desire to take the poor
little woman in his arms and comfort her in love’s own way. And while
they waited a thin little voice came from the pillows.
“I ain’t a bit sick,” it said, “jest that flustered I can’t help but cry.
Don’t mind me—Tobe. I’m real—glad to see you.”
“Mary,” Tobe rose from the chair into which he had dropped and stooped
over the little trembling figure until his big, firm, strong hands rested
on her shoulders. “Mary, do you reckon you could make out to go on up to
Lumpkin with me? I’d love, the best kind to raise a crop this year.”
A cry of inarticulate joy struggled up from the pillows and after a
moment a little tear-wet, lovely radiant face looked up at Tobe. “Do you
mean—Oh, Tobe, would you take the _chillun_ too?” Mary faltered.
“Sure thing, an’ be only too glad. Land, how I’ve missed them young
’uns!” cried Tobe, every fiber of his being aglow.
Mary’s joy brimmed over. “Oh Polly, did you hear that!” she called in
sheer ecstacy. “I couldn’t be happier—no, not if I was in heaven.”
The young man lifted his head and looked straight at Polly with wet,
shining eyes. “Say, you’ve got to go long with us,” he said unsteadily,
“’cause I ain’t goin’ to leave Mary do a lick of work till she gits plum
strong agin, no matter what comes. Git ready, will you, Polly?”
“Me! My land, how pleased I’d be. Why, it’d be like gittin’ to
heaven—mighty nigh,” said Polly growing hot and cold by turns. “Now that
the boys is both goin’ down to live with pa, too. Seem like things is
turnin’ out too good to be true.”
“Don’t it! Tobe, can we go soon?” Mary asked breathlessly.
“Soon as you’n Polly can fix what you want to take along,” Tobe answered
eagerly. “I’ll go over an’ fetch the chillun from the factory while you
all git ready. We’d oughter git home by dark.”
Then he rose and strode buoyantly across the sun-baked hill to the
factory door and Mary rose, too, tremblingly, but without hesitation,
while Polly held herself in readiness to support her frail figure should
her strength desert her. But there was no further need of anxiety, for
Mary had tasted the elixir of life during that brief, transfiguring hour
when love had put to rout the dreariness of hope deferred and filled her
heart with joy unspeakable.
[Illustration]