the water for a brief moment, as if renewing her baptism, and when she
presently lifted herself, she was crying aloud, sobbing as a child sobs
in the awful momentary despair of grief at the untwining of
arms--shaken, unrestrained.
While she stood thus for a few minutes only,--a pathetic waste of
sorrow, wet, dark and forlorn, alone on the night-shore,--a sudden wind,
a common evening current, threw a foaming wave over the logs beside her
so that its spray covered her over; while the straining ropes, breaking
and bumping timbers, with the slow dripping of the spent wave through
the raft, seemed to answer and possibly to assuage her agitation; for,
as the wind passed and the waters subsided, she suddenly grew still,
and, climbing the bank as she had come, walked evenly as one at peace,
into her cabin.
No one will ever know what, precisely, was the nature of this last
communion. Was it simply an intimate leave-taking of a faithful
companionship grown dear through years of stress? Or had it deeper
meaning in a realization--or hallucination--as to the personality of the
river--the "secret" to which she only once mysteriously referred in a
gush of confidence on her master's return?
Perhaps she did not know herself, or only vaguely felt what she could
not tell. Certainly not even to her old husband, one with her in life
and spirit, did she try to convey this mystic revelation. We know by
intuition the planes upon which our minds may meet with those of our
nearest and dearest. To the good man and soldier, Israel,--the prophet,
even, who held up the wavering hands of the imaginative woman when her
courage waned, pointing to the hour of fulfilment,--the great river,
full of potencies for good or ill, could be only a river. As a mirror it
had shown him divinity, and in its character it might _typify_ to his
image-loving mind another thing which service would make it precious.
But what he would have called his sanity--had he known the word--would
have obliged him to stop there.
The stars do not tell, and the poor moon--at best only hinting what the
sun says--is fully half-time off her mind. And the SOUL OF THE
RIVER--if, indeed, it has once broken silence--may not speak again.
And, so, her secret is safe--safe even if the broken winds did catch a
breath, here and there, sending it flurriedly through and over the logs
until they trembled with a sort of mad harp-consciousness, and were set
a-quivering for just one full strain--one coherent expression of
soul-essence--when the wave broke. Perhaps the arms of the twin spirits
were untwined--and they went their separate ways smiling--the woman and
the river.
When, after a short time, the old wife came out, dressed in fresh
clothing, her white, starched tignon shining in the moonlight, to sit
and talk with her husband, her composure was as perfect as that of the
face of the water which in its serenity suggested the voice of the
Master, when Peter would have sunk but for his word.
This was to be their last night here. Harold was to bring a carriage on
the next day to take them to his mother and Blossom, and, despite the
joy in their old hearts, it cost them a pang to contemplate going away.
Every woodpile seemed to hold a memory, each feature of the bank a
tender association. Blucher lay sleeping beside them.
Israel spoke first.
"Hannah!" he said.
"What, Isrul?"
"I ready to go home to-night, Hannah. Marse Harol' done come. We done
finished our 'sponsibility--an' de big river's a-flowin' on to de
sea--an' settin' heah, I 'magines I kin see Mis' Aggie lookin' down on
us, an' seem like she mought want to consult wid us arter our meetin'
wid Marse Harol' an' we passin' Blossom along. What you say, Hannah?"
"I been tired, ole man, an' ef we could 'a' went las' night, like you
say, seem like I 'd 'a' been ready--an', of co'se, I'm ready now, ef
Gord wills. Peace is on my sperit. Yit an' still, when we rests off a
little an' studies freedom free-handed, we won't want to hasten along
maybe. Ef we was to set heah an' wait tell Gord calls us,--He ain't ap'
to call us bofe together, an' dey'd be lonesome days for the last one.
But ef we goes 'long wid Marse Harol', he an' Blossom'll be a heap o'
comfort to de one what's left."
"Hannah!"
"Yas, Isrul."
"We's a-settin' to-night close to de brink--ain't dat so?"
"Yas, Isrul."
"An' de deep waters is in sight, eh, Hannah?"
"Yas, Isrul."
"An' we heah it singin', ef we listen close, eh, Hannah?"
"Yas, Isrul."
"Well, don't let 's forgit it, dat 's all. Don't let's forgit, when we
turns our backs on dis swellin' tide, dat de river o' Jordan is jes
befo' us, all de same--an' it can't be long befo' our crossin'-time."
"Amen!" said the woman.
* * * * *
The moon shone full upon the great river, making a shimmering path of
light from shore to shore, when the old couple slowly rose and went to
rest.
Toward morning there was a quick gurgling sound in front of the cabin.
Blucher caught it, and, springing out, barked at the stars. The sleepers
within the levee hut slept on, being overweary.
The watchman in the Carrollton garden heard the sound,--heard it swell
almost to a roar,--and he ran to the new levee, reaching its summit just
in time to see the roof of the cabin as it sank, with the entire point
of land upon which it rested, into the greedy flood.
* * * * *
When Harold Le Duc arrived that morning to take the old people home, the
river came to meet him at the brim of the near bank, and its face was as
the face of smiling innocence.
While he stood awe-stricken before the awful fact so tragically
expressed in the river's bland denial, a wet dog came, and, whining,
crouched at his feet. He barked softly, laid his head a moment upon his
master's boot, moaned a sort of confidential note, and, looking into the
air, barked again, softly.
Did he see more than he could tell? Was he trying to comfort his master?
He had heard all the sweet converse of the old people on that last
night, and perhaps he was saying in his poor best speech that all was
well.
Mammy Hannah and Uncle Israel, having discharged their responsibility,
had crossed the River together.
PART THIRD
"Oh, it 's windy,
Sweet Lucindy,
On de river-bank to-night,
An' de moontime
Beats de noontime,
When de trimblin' water 's white."
So runs the plantation love-song, and so sang a great brown fellow as,
with oars over his shoulder, he strolled down "Lovers' Lane," between
the _bois d'arcs_, toward the Mississippi levee.
He repeated it correctly until he neared the gourd-vine which marked the
home of his lady, when he dropped his voice a bit and, eschewing rhyme
for the greater value, sang:
"Oh, it 's windy,
Sweet Maria,
On de river-bank to-night--"
And slackening his pace until he heard footsteps behind him, he stopped
and waited while a lithe yellow girl overtook him languidly.
"Heah, you take yo' sheer o' de load!" he laughed as he handed her one
of the oars. "Better begin right. You tote half an' me half." And as she
took the oar he added, "How is you to-night, anyhow, sugar-gal?"
While he put his right arm around her waist, having shifted the
remaining oar to his left side, the girl instinctively bestowed the one
she carried over her right shoulder, so that her left arm was free for
reciprocity, to which it naively devoted itself.
"I tell yer, hit 's fine an' windy to-night, sho' enough," he said. "De
breeze on de levee is fresh an' cool, an' de skift she's got a new
yaller-buff frock, an' she--"
"Which skift? De _Malviny_? Is you give her a fresh coat o' paint? An'
dat's my favoryte color--yaller-buff!" This with a chuckle.
"No; dey ain't no _Malviny_ skift no mo'--not on dis plantation. I done
changed her name."
"You is, is yer? What is you named her dis time?"
She was preparing to express surprise in the surely expected. Of course
the boat was renamed the _Maria_. What else, in the circumstances?
"I painted her after a lady-frien's complexion, a bright, clair yaller;
but as to de name--guess!" said the man, with a lunge toward the girl,
as the oar he carried struck a tree--a lunge which brought him into
position to touch her ear with his lips while he repeated: "What you
reckon I named her, sweetenin'?"
"How should I know? I ain't in yo' heart!"
"You ain't, ain't yer? Ef you ain't, I'd like mighty well to know who
is. You's a reg'lar risidenter, you is--an' you knows it, too! Guess
along, gal. What you think de boat's named?"
"Well, ef you persises for me to guess, I'll say _Silv' Ann_. Dat 's a
purty title for a skift."
"_Silv' Ann!_" contemptuously. "I 'clare, M'ria, I b'lieve you 's
jealous-hearted. No, indeedy! I know I run 'roun' wid Silv' Ann awhile
back, jes to pass de time, but she can't name none o' my boats! No; ef
you won't guess, I'll tell yer--dat is, I'll give you a hint. She named
for my best gal! _Now guess!_"
"I never was no hand at guessin'." The girl laughed while she tossed her
head. "Heah, take dis oah, man, an' lemme walk free. I ain't ingaged to
tote no half-load _yit_--as I knows on. Lordy, but dat heavy paddle done
put my whole arm to sleep. Ouch! boy. Hands off tell de pins an' needles
draps out. I sho' is glad to go rowin' on de water to-night."
So sure was she now of her lover, and of the honor which he tossed as a
ball in his hands, never letting her quite see it, that she whimsically
put away the subject.
She had been to school several summers and could decipher a good many
words, but most surely, from proud practice, she could spell her own
name. As they presently climbed the levee together, she remarked, seeing
the water: "Whar is de boat, anyhow--de What-you-may-call-it? She ain't
in sight--not heah!"
"No; she's a little piece up de current--in de willer-clump. I didn't
want nobody foolin' wid 'er--an' maybe readin' off my affairs. She got
her new intitlemint painted on her stern--every letter a different
color, to match de way her namesake treats me--in a new light every
day."
The girl giggled foolishly. She seemed to see the contour of her own
name, a bouquet of color reaching across the boat, and it pleased her.
It would be a witness for her--to all who could read.
"I sho' does like boats an' water," she generalized, as they walked on.
"Me, too," agreed her lover; "but I likes anything--wid my chosen
company. What is dat whizzin' past my face? Look like a honey-bee."
"'T is a honey-bee. Dey comes up heah on account o' de chiny-flowers.
But look out! Dat's another! You started 'em time you drug yo' oah in de
mids' o' dem chiny-blossoms. Whenever de chiny-trees gits too sickenin'
sweet, look out for de bees!"
"Yas," chuckled de man; "an' dey's a lesson in dat, ef we'd study over
it. Whenever life gits too sweet, look out for trouble! But we won't
worry 'bout dat to-night. Is you 'feared o' stingin' bees?"
"No, not whilst dey getherin' honey--dey too busy. Hit 's de idlers dat
I shun. An' I ain't afeared o' trouble, nuther. Yit an' still, ef
happiness is a sign, I better look sharp."
"Is you so happy, my Sugar?"
The girl laughed.
"I don't know ef I is or not--I mus' see de name on dat skift befo' I
can say. Take yo' han' off my wais', boy! Ef you don't I'll be 'feared
o' stingin' bees, sho' enough! Don't make life _too_ sweet!"
They were both laughing when the girl dashed ahead into the
willow-clump, Love close at her heels, and in a moment the _Maria_, in
her gleaming dress of yellow, darted out into the sunset.
A boat or two had preceded them, and another followed presently, but it
takes money to own a skiff, or even to build one of the driftwood, which
is free to the captor. And so most of the couples who sought the river
strolled for a short space, finding secluded seats on the rough-hewn
benches between the acacia-trees or on the drift-dogs which lined the
water's edge. It was too warm for continued walking.
From some of the smaller vessels, easily recognizable as of the same
family as the fruit-luggers which crowd around "Picayune Tier" at the
French market, there issued sweet songs in the soft Italian tongue,
often accompanied by the accordeon.
Young Love sang on the water in half a dozen tongues, as he sings there
yet at every summer eventide.
The skiffs for the most part kept fairly close to the shore, skirting
the strong current of the channel, avoiding, too, the large steamboats,
whose passage ever jeopardized the small craft which crossed in their
wake.
Indeed, the passage of one of these great "packets" generally cleared
the midstream, although a few venturesome oarsmen would often dare fate
in riding the billows in her wake. These great steamboats were known
among the humble river folk more for their wave-making power than for
the proud features which distinguished them in their personal relations.
There were those, for instance, who would watch for a certain great boat
called the _Capitol_, just for the bravado of essaying the bubbling
storm which followed her keel, while some who, enjoying their fun with
less snap of danger, preferred to have their skiffs dance behind the
_Laurel Hill_. Or perhaps it was the other way: it may have been the
_Laurel Hill_, of the sphere-topped smoke-stacks, which made the more
sensational passage.
It all happened a long time ago, although only about thirteen years had
passed since the events last related, and both boats are dead. At least
they are out of the world of action, and let us hope they have gone to
their rest. An old hulk stranded ashore and awaiting final dissolution
is ever a pathetic sight, suggesting a patient paralytic in his chair,
grimly biding fate--the waters of eternity at his feet.
At intervals, this evening, fishermen alongshore--old negroes
mostly--pottered among the rafts, setting their lines, and if the
oarsmen listened keenly, they might almost surely have caught from these
gentle toilers short snatches of low-pitched song, hymns mostly, of
content or rejoicing.
There was no sense of the fitness of the words when an ancient fisher
sang "Sweet fields beyan' de swelling flood," or of humor in "How firm
a foundation," chanted by one standing boot-deep in suspicious sands.
The favorite hymn of several of the colored fishermen, however, seemed
to be "Cometh our fount of every blessin'," frankly so pronounced with
reverent piety.
At a distant end of his raft, hidden from its owner by a jutting point
from which they leaped, naked boys waded and swam, jeering the deaf
singer as they jeered each passing boat, while occasionally an
adventurous fellow would dive quite under a skiff, seizing his
opportunity while the oars were lifted.
None of the little rowboats carried sail as a rule, although sometimes a
sloop would float by with an air of commanding a squadron of the sparse
fleet which extended along the length of the river.
The sun was fallen nearly to the levee-line this evening when one of the
finest of the "river palaces" hove in sight.
The sky-hour for "dousing the great glim" was so near--and the actual
setting of the sun is always sudden--that, while daylight still
prevailed, all the steamer's lights were lit, and although the keen sun
which struck her as a search-light robbed her thousand lamps of their
value, the whole scene was greater for the full illumination.
The people along shore waved to the passing boat--they always do it--and
the more amiable of the passengers answered with flying handkerchiefs.
As she loomed radiant before them, an aged negro, sitting mending his
net, remarked to his companion:
"What do she look like to you, Br'er Jones?"
"'What she look like to me?'" The man addressed took his pipe from his
lips at the question. "What she look like--to me?" he repeated again.
"Why, tell the trufe, I was jes' studyin' 'bout dat when you spoke. She
'minds me o' Heaven; dat what she signifies to my eyes--Heavenly
mansions. What do she look like to _you_?"
"Well," the man shifted the quid in his mouth and lowered his shuttle as
he said slowly, "well, to my observance, she don't answer for Heaven; I
tell yer dat: not wid all dat black smoke risin' outen 'er 'bominable
regions. She's mo' like de yether place to _me_. She may have Heavenly
gyarments on, but she got a hell breath, sho'. An' listen at de band o'
music playin' devil-dance time inside her! An' when she choose to let it
out, she's got a-a-nawful snort--she sho' is!"
"Does you mean de cali-ope?"
"No; she ain't got no cali-ope. I means her clair whistle. Hit's got a
jedgment-day sound in it to my ears."
"Dat music you heah', dat ain't no dance-music. She plays dat for de
passengers to eat by, so dey tell me. But I reckon dey jes p'onounces
supper dat-a-way, same as you'd ring a bell. An' when de people sets
down to de table, dey mus' sho'ly have de manners to stop long enough to
let 'em eat in peace. Yit an' still, whilst she looks like Heaven, I'd a
heap ruther set heah an' see her go by 'n to put foot in her, 'ca'se I'd
look for her to 'splode out de minute I landed in her an' to scatter my
body in one direction an' my soul somewhars else. No; even ef she was
Heaven, I'd ruther 'speriment heah a little longer, settin' on de sof'
grass an' smellin' de yearnin' trees an' listenin' at de bumblebees
a-bumblin', an' go home an' warm up my bacon an' greens for supper, an'
maybe go out foragin' for my Sunday chicken to-night in de dark o' de
moon. Hyah! My stomach hit rings de dinner-bell for me, jes as good as a
brass ban'."
"Me, too!" chuckled the smoker. "I'll take my chances on dry lan', every
time. I know I'll nuver lead a p'ocession but once-t, and dat'll be at
my own fun'al, an' I don't inten' to resk my chances. But she is sho'
one noble-lookin' boat."
By this time the great steamboat--the wonderful apparition so aptly
typifying Heaven and hell--had passed.
She carried only the usual number of passengers, but at this evening
hour they crowded the guards, making a brilliant showing. Family parties
they were mostly, with here and there groups of young folk, generally
collected about some popular girl who formed a center around which
coquetry played mirthfully in the breeze. A piquant Arcadian bride,
"pretty as red shoes," artlessly appearing in all her white wedding
toggery, her veil almost crushed by its weight of artificial
orange-flowers, looked stoically away from the little dark husband who
persisted in fanning her vigorously, while they sat in the sun-filled
corner which they had taken for its shade while the boat was turned into
the landing to take them aboard. And, of course, there was the usual
quota of staid couples who had survived this interesting stage of life's
game.
Nor was exhibition of rather intimate domesticity entirely missing.
Infancy dined in Nature's own way, behind the doubtful screening of
waving palmetto fans. While among the teething and whooping-cough
contingents the observer of life might have found both tragedy and
comedy for his delectation.
Mild, submissive mothers of families, women of the Creole middle class
mainly,--old and withered at thirty-five, all their youthful magnolia
tints gone wrong, as in the flower when its bloom is passed--exchanged
maternal experiences, and agreed without dissent that the world was full
of trouble, but "God was good."
Even a certain slight maternal wisp who bent over a tiny waxen thing
upon her lap, dreading each moment to perceive the flicker in her breath
which would show that a flame went out--even she, poor tear-dimmed soul,
said it while she answered sympathetic inquiry:
"Oh, yas; it is for her we are taking de trip. Yas, she is very sick,
_mais God is good_. It is de eye-teet'. De river's breath it is de bes'
medicine. De doctor he prescribe it. An' my father he had las' winter
such a so much trouble to work his heart, an' so, seeing we were coming,
he is also here--yas, dat's heem yonder, asleep. 'T is his most best
sleep for a year, lying so. De river she give it. An' dose ferryboat dey
got always on board too much whooping-cough to fasten on to eye-teet."
* * * * *
Somewhat apart from the other passengers, their circle loosely but
surely defined by the irregular setting of their chairs toward a common
center, sat a group, evidently of the great world--most conspicuous
among them a distinguished-looking couple in fresh mid-life, who led the
animated discussion, and who were seen often to look in the direction of
a tall and beautiful girl who stood in the midst of a circle of young
people within easy call. It was impossible not to see that their
interest in the girl was vital, for they often exchanged glances when
her laughter filled the air, and laughed with her, although they knew
only that she had laughed.
The girl stood well in sight, although "surrounded six deep" by an
adoring crowd; nor was this attributable alone to her height which set
her fine little head above most of her companions. A certain distinction
of manner--unrelated to haughtiness, which may fail in effect, or
arrogance, which may over-ride but never appeal; perhaps it was a
graciousness of bearing--kept her admirers ever at a tasteful distance.
There was an ineffable charm about the girl, a thing apart from the
unusual beauty which marked her in any gathering of which she became a
part.
Descriptions are hazardous and available words often inadequate to the
veracious presentment of beauty, and yet there is ever in perfection a
challenge to the pen.
As the maiden stood this evening in the sunlight, her radiant yellow
hair complementing the blue of her sea-deep eyes, her fair cheeks
aglow, and one color melting to another in her quick movements, the
effect was almost like an iridescence. Tender in tints as a sea-shell,
there might have been danger of lapse into insipidity but for the accent
of dark rims and curled lashes which individualized the eyes, and, too,
the strong, straight lines of her contour, which, more than the note of
dark color, marked her a Le Duc.
There are some women who naturally hold court, no matter what the
conditions of life, and to whom tribute comes as naturally as the air
they breathe. It often dates back into their spelling-class days, and I
am not sure that it does not occasionally begin in the "perambulator."
This magnetic quality--one hesitates to use an expression so nervously
prostrated by strenuous overwork, and yet it is well made and to
hand--this magnetic quality, then, was probably, in Agnes Le Duc, the
gift of the Latin strain grafted upon New England sturdiness and
reserve, the one answering, as one might say, for ballast, while the
other lent sail for the equable poising of a safe and brilliant
life-craft.
So, also, was her unusual beauty markedly a composite and of elements so
finely contrasting that their harmonizing seemed rather a succession of
flashes, as of opposite electric currents meeting and breaking through
the caprice of temperamental disturbance; as in the smile which won by
its witchery, or the illumination with which rapid thought or sudden
pity kindled her eye.
Educated alternately in Louisiana where she had recited her history
lessons in French, and in New England, the pride and pet of a charmed
Cambridge circle, with occasional trips abroad with her "parents," she
was emerging, all unknowingly, a rather exceptional young woman for any
place or time.
Seeing her this evening, an enthusiast might have likened her to the
exquisite bud of a great tea-rose, regal on a slender stem--shy of
unfolding, yet ultimately unafraid, even through the dewy veil of
immaturity--knowing full well, though she might not stop to remember,
the line of court roses in her pedigree.
Watching her so at a safe distance, one could not help wondering that
she thought it worth her while to listen at all, seeing how her admirers
waited upon her every utterance. To listen well has long been considered
a grace--just to listen; but there is a still higher art, perhaps, in
going a step beyond. It is to listen with enthusiasm, yes, even with
_eloquence_. One having a genius for this sort of oratory, speaking
through the inspired utterance of another, and of course supplying the
inspiration, gains easily the reputation of "delightful conversational
powers."