IN WHICH SALLY STOOPS
A week or two later the General stopped me as I was leaving his office.
"I don't like the look of you, Ben. What's the matter?"
"My head has been troubling me, General. It's been splitting for a week,
and I can't see straight."
"You've thought too much, that's the mischief. Why not cut the whole
thing and go West with me to-morrow in my car? I'll be gone for a
month."
"It's out of the question. A man who is over head and ears in debt
oughtn't to be spinning about the country in a private car."
"I don't see the logic of that as long as it's somebody else's car."
"You'd see it if you had two hundred thousand dollars of debt."
"Well, I've been worse off. I've had two hundred thousand devils of
gout. Here, come along with me. Bring Sally, bring the youngster. I'll
take the whole bunch of 'em."
When I declined, he still urged me, showing his annoyance plainly, as a
man does in whom opposition even in trifles arouses a resentful, almost
a violent, spirit of conquest. So, I knew, he had pursued every aim,
great or small, of his life, with the look in his face of an intelligent
bulldog, and the conviction somewhere in his brain that the only method
of overcoming an obstacle was to hang on, if necessary, until the
obstacle grew too weak to put forth further resistance. Once, and once
only, to my knowledge, had this power to hang on, this bulldog grip,
availed him but little, and that was when his violence had encountered a
gentleness as soft as velvet, yet as inflexible as steel. In his whole
life only poor little Miss Matoaca had withstood him; and as I met the
angry, indomitable spirit in his eyes, there rose before me the figure
of his old love, with her look of meek, unconquerable obstinacy and with
the faint fragrance and colour about her that was like the fragrance and
colour of faded rose-leaves.
"There's no use, General. I can't do it," I said at last; and parting
from him at the corner, I signalled the car for Church Hill, while he
drove slowly up-town in his buggy.
It was a breathless June afternoon. A spell of intense early heat had
swept over the country, and the summer flowers were unfolding as if
forced open in the air of a hothouse. At the door Sally met me with a
telegram from Jessy announcing her marriage to Mr. Cottrel in New York;
but the words and the fact seemed to me to have no nearer relation to my
life than if they had described the romantic adventures of a girl, in a
crimson blouse, who was passing along the pavement.
"Well, she's got what she wanted." I remarked indifferently, "so she's
to be congratulated, I suppose. My head is throbbing as if it would
break open. I'll go in and lie down in the dusk, before supper."
"Do the flowers bother you? Shall I take them away?" she asked,
following me into the bedroom, and closing the shutters.
"I don't notice them. This confounded headache is the only thing I can
think of. It hasn't let up a single minute."
Bending over me, she laid her cheek to mine, and stroked the hair back
from my forehead with her small, cool hand, which reminded me of the
touch of roses. Then going softly out, she closed the door after her,
while I turned on my side, and lay, half asleep, half awake, in the
deepening twilight.
From the garden, through the open blinds of the green shutters, floated
the strong, sweet scent of the jessamine blooming on the columns of the
piazza; and I heard, now and then, as if from a great distance, the
harsh, frightened cry of a swallow as it flew out from its nest under
the roof. A sudden, sharp realisation of imperative duties left undone
awoke in my mind; and I felt impelled, as if by some outward pressure,
to rise and go back again down the long, hot hill into the city.
"There's something important I meant to do, and did not," I thought; "as
soon as this pain stops, I suppose I shall remember it, and why it is so
urgent. If I can only sleep for a few minutes, my brain will clear, and
then I can think it out, and everything that is so confused now will be
easy." In some way, I knew that this neglected duty concerned Sally and
the child. I had been selfish with Sally in my misery. When I awoke with
a clear head, I would go to her and say I was sorry.
The scent of the jessamine became suddenly so intense that I drew the
coverlet over my face in the effort to shut it out. Then turning my eyes
to the wall, I lay without thinking or feeling, while my consciousness
slowly drifted outside the closed room and the penetrating fragrance of
the garden beyond. Once it seemed to me that somebody came in a dream
and bent over me, stroking my forehead. At first I thought it was Sally,
until the roughness of the hand startled me, and opening my eyes, I saw
that it was my mother, in her faded grey calico, with the perplexed and
anxious look in her eyes, as if she, too, were trying to remember some
duty which was very important, and which she had half forgotten. "Why, I
thought you were dead!" I exclaimed aloud, and the sound of my own voice
waked me.
It was broad daylight now; the shutters were open, and the breeze,
blowing through the long window, brought the scent of jessamine
distilled in the sunshine beyond. It seemed to me that I had slept
through an eternity, and with my first waking thought, there revived the
same pressure of responsibility, the same sense of duties, unfulfilled
and imperative, with which I had turned to the wall and drawn the
coverlet over my face. "I must get up," I said aloud; and then, as I
lifted my hand, I saw that it was wasted and shrunken, and that the blue
veins showed through the flesh as through delicate porcelain. Then,
"I've been ill," I thought, and "Sally? Sally?" The effort of memory was
too great for me, and without moving my body, I lay looking toward the
long window, where Aunt Euphronasia sat, in the square of sunshine,
crooning to little Benjamin, while she rocked slowly back and forth,
beating time with her foot to the music.
"Oh, we'll ride in de golden cha'iot, by en bye, lil' chillun,
We'll ride in de golden cha'iot, by en bye.
Oh, we'se all gwine home ter glory, by en bye, lil' chillun,
We'se all gwine home ter glory by en bye.
Oh, we'll drink outer de healin' fountain, by en bye, lil' chillun,
We'll drink outer de healin' fountain by en bye."
"Sally!" I called aloud, and my voice sounded thin and distant in my own
ears.
There was the sound of quick steps, the door opened and shut, and Sally
came in and leaned over me. She wore a blue gingham apron over her
dress, her sleeves were rolled up, and her hand, when it touched my
face, felt warm and soft as if it had been plunged into hot soapsuds.
Then my eyes fell on a jagged burn on her wrist.
"What is that?" I asked, pointing to it. "You've hurt yourself."
"Oh, Ben, my dearest, are you really awake?"
"What is that, Sally? You have hurt yourself."
"I burned my hand on the stove--it is nothing. Dearest, are you better?
Wait. Don't speak till you take your nourishment."
She went out, returning a moment later with a glass of milk and whiskey,
which she held to my lips, sitting on the bedside, with her arm slipped
under my pillow.
"How long have I been ill, Sally?"
"Several weeks. You became conscious and then had a relapse. Do you
remember?"
"No, I remember nothing."
"Well, don't talk. Everything is all right--and I'm so happy to have you
alive I could sing the Jubilee, as Aunt Euphronasia says."
"Several weeks and there was no money! Of course, you went to the
General, Sally--but I forgot, the General is away. You went to somebody,
though. Surely you got help?"
"Oh, I managed, Ben. There's nothing to worry about now that you are
better. I feel that there'll never be anything to worry about again."
"But several weeks, Sally, and I lying like a log, and the General away!
What did you do?"
"I nursed you for one thing, and gave you medicine and chicken broth and
milk and whiskey. Now, I shan't talk any more until the doctor comes.
Lie quiet and try to sleep."
But the jagged burn on her wrist still held my gaze, and catching her
hand as she turned away, I pressed my lips to it with all my strength.
"Your hand feels so queer, Sally. It's as red as if it had been
scalded."
"I've been cooking my dinner, and you see I eat a great deal. There,
now, that's positively my last word."
Bending over, she kissed me hurriedly, a tear fell on my face, and then
before I could catch the fluttering hem of her apron, she had broken
from me, and gone out, closing the door after her. For a minute I lay
perfectly motionless, too weak for thought. Then opening my eyes with an
effort, I stared straight up at the white ceiling, against which a green
June beetle was knocking with a persistent, buzzing sound that seemed an
accompaniment to the crooning lullaby of Aunt Euphronasia.
"Oh, we'se all gwine home ter glory, by en bye, lil' chillun,
We'se all gwine home ter glory, by en bye."
"Will he break his wings on the ceiling, or will he fly out of the
window?" I thought drowsily, and it appeared to me suddenly that my
personal troubles--my illness, my anxiety for Sally, and even the
poverty that must have pressed upon her--had receded to an obscure and
cloudy distance, in which they became less important in my mind than the
problem of the green June beetle knocking against the ceiling. "Will he
break his wings or will he fly out?" I asked, with a dull interest in
the event, which engrossed my thoughts to the exclusion of all personal
matters. "I ought to think of Sally and the child, but I can't. My head
won't let me. It has gone wrong, and if I begin to think hard thoughts
I'll go delirious again. There is jessamine blooming somewhere. Did she
have a spray in her hair when she bent over me? Why did she wear a
gingham apron at a ball instead of pink tarlatan? No, that was not the
problem I had to solve. Will he break his wings or will he fly out?"
"Oh, we'll fit on de golden slippers, by en bye, lil' chillun,"
crooned Aunt Euphronasia, rocking little Benjamin in the square of
sunlight.
The song soothed me and I slept for a minute. Then starting awake in the
cold sweat of terror, I struggled wildly after the problem which still
eluded me.
"Has he flown out?" I asked.
"Who, Marse Ben?" enquired the old negress, stopping her rocking and her
lullaby at the same instant.
"The June beetle. I thought he'd break his wings on the ceiling."
"Go 'way f'om hyer, honey, he ain' gwine breck 'is wings. Dar's moughty
little sense inside er dem, but dey ain' gwine do dat. Is yo' wits done
come back?"
"Not quite. I feel crazy. Aunt Euphronasia!"
"W'at you atter, Marse Ben?"
"How did Sally manage?"
"Ef'n hit's de las' wud I speak, she's done managed jes exactly ez ef'n
she wuz de Lawd A'moughty."
"And she didn't suffer?"
"Who? She? Dar ain' none un us suffer, honey, we'se all been livin' on
de ve'y fat er de lan', we is. Dar's been roas' pig en shoat e'vy
blessed day fur dinner."
She had talked me down, and I turned over again and lay in silence,
until Sally came in with a dose of medicine and a cup of broth.
"Have I been very ill, Sally?"
"Very ill. It was the long mental strain, followed by the intense heat.
At one time we feared that a blood vessel was broken. Now, put
everything out of your mind, and get well."
She had taken off her gingham apron, and was wearing one of her last
summer's dresses of flowered organdie. I remembered that I had always
liked it because it had blue roses over it.
"How can I get well when I know that you have been starving?"
"But we haven't been. We've had everything on earth we wanted."
"Then thank God you got help. Whom did you go to?"
Putting the empty glass aside, she began feeding me spoonfuls of broth,
with her arm under my pillow.
"If you will be bad and insist upon knowing--I didn't go to anybody. You
said you couldn't bear being helped, you know."
"I said it--oh, darling--but I didn't think of this!"
"Well, I thought of it, anyway, and I wasn't going to do while you were
ill and helpless what you didn't want me to do when you were well."
"You mean you told nobody all these weeks?"
"Well, I told one or two people, but I didn't accept charity from them.
The General was away, you know, but some people from the office came
over with offers of help--and I told them we needed nothing. Dr.
Theophilus was too far away to treat you, but he has come almost every
day with a pitcher of Mrs. Clay's chicken broth. Oh, we've prospered,
Ben, there's no doubt of that, we've prospered!"
"How soon may I get up?"
"Not for three weeks, and it will be another three weeks even if you're
good, before you can go back to the office."
A sob rose in my throat, but I bit it back fiercely before it passed my
lips.
"Oh, Sally, my darling, why did you marry me?"
"You cruel boy," she returned cheerfully, as she smoothed my pillows,
"when you know that if I hadn't married you there wouldn't be any little
Benjamin in the world."
After this the slow days dragged away, while I consumed chicken broth
and milk punches with a frantic desire to get back my strength. Only to
be on my feet again, and able to lift the burden from Sally's shoulders!
Only to drive that tired look from her eyes, and that patient, divine
smile from her lips! I watched her with jealous longing while I lay
there, helpless as a fallen tree, and I saw that she grew daily thinner,
that the soft redness never left her small, childlike hands, that three
fine, nervous wrinkles had appeared between her arched eyebrows.
Something was killing her, while I, the man who had sworn before God to
cherish her, was but an additional burden on her fragile shoulders. And
yet how I loved her! Never had she seemed to me more lovely, more
desirable, than she did as she moved about my bed in her gingham apron,
with the anxious smile on her lips, and the delicate furrows deepening
between her eyebrows.
"How soon? How soon, Sally?" I asked almost hourly, kissing the scar on
her wrist when she bent over me.
"Be patient, dear."
"I am trying to be patient for your sake, but oh, it's devilish hard!"
"I know it is, Ben. Another week, and you will be up."
"Another week, and this killing you!"
"It isn't killing me. If it were killing me, do you think I could laugh?
And you hear me laugh?"
"Yes, I hear you laugh, and it breaks my heart as I lie here. If I'm
ever up, Sally, if I'm ever well, I'll make you go to bed and I will
slave over you."
"There are many things I'd enjoy more, dear. Going to bed isn't my idea
of happiness."
"Then you shall sit on a cushion and eat nothing but strawberries and
cream."
"That sounds better. Well, there's something I've got to see about, so
I'll leave you with Aunt Euphronasia to look after you. The doctor says
you may have a cup of tea if you're good. We'll make a party together."
An hour or two later, when the afternoon sunshine was shut out by the
green blinds, and the room was filled with a gentle droning sound from
the humming-birds at the jessamine, she drew up the small wicker tea
table to my bedside, and we made the party with merriment. Her eyes were
tired, the three fine nervous wrinkles had deepened between her arched
eyebrows, and the soft redness I had objected to, covered her hands; yet
that spirit of gaiety, which had seemed to me to resemble the spirit of
the bird singing in the old grey house, still showed in her voice and
her smile. As she brewed the tea in the little brown tea-pot and poured
it into the delicate cups, with the faded pattern of moss rosebuds
around the brim, I wondered, half in a dream, from what inexhaustible
source she drew this courage which faced life, not with endurance, but
with blitheness. Were the ghosts of the dead Blands and Fairfaxes from
whom she had sprung fighting over again their ancient battles in their
descendant?
"This is a nice party, isn't it?" she asked, when she had brought the
hot buttered toast from the kitchen and cut it into very small slices on
my plate; "the tea smells deliciously. I paid a dollar and a quarter for
a pound of it this morning."
"If I'm ever rich again you shall pay a million and a quarter, if you
want to."
The charming archness awoke in her eyes, while she looked at me over the
brim of the cup.
"Isn't this just as nice as being rich, Ben?" she asked; "I am really,
you know, a far better cook than Aunt Mehitable."
"All the same I'd rather live on bread and water than have you do it," I
answered.
She lifted her hand, pushing the heavy hair from her forehead, and my
gaze fell on the jagged scar on her wrist. Then, as she caught my
glance, her arm dropped suddenly under the table, and she pulled her
loose muslin sleeve into place.
"Does the burn hurt you, Sally?"
"Not now--it is quite healed. At first it smarted a little."
"Darling, how did you do it?"
"I've forgotten. On the stove, I think."
I fell back on the pillow, too faint, in spite of the tea I had taken,
to follow a thought in which there was so sharp and so incessant a pang.
Before my eyes the little table, with its white cloth and its fragile
china service, decorated with moss rosebuds, appeared to dissolve into
some painful dream distance, in which the sound of the humming-birds at
the jessamine grew gradually louder.
Six days longer I remained in bed, too weak to get into my clothes, or
to stand on my feet, but at the end of that time I was permitted to
struggle to the square of sunlight by the window, where I sat for an
hour with the warm breeze from the garden blowing into my face. For the
first day or two I was unable to rise from the deep chintz-covered
chair, in which Aunt Euphronasia and Sally had placed me; but one
afternoon, when the old negress had returned to the kitchen, and Sally
had gone out on an errand, I disobeyed their orders and crawled out on
the porch, where the scent of the jessamine seemed a part of the summer
sunshine. The next day I ventured as far as the kitchen steps, and found
Aunt Euphronasia plucking a chicken for my broth, with little Benjamin
asleep in his carriage at her side.
"Aunt Euphronasia, do you know where Sally goes every afternoon?" I
enquired.
"Hi! Marse Ben, ain't un 'oman erbleeged ter teck her time off de same
ez a man?" she demanded indignantly. "She cyarn' be everlastin'ly
a-settin' plum at yo' elbow."
"You know perfectly well I'm not such a brute as to be complaining,
mammy."
"Mebbe you ain't, honey, but hit sounds dat ar way ter me."
"If I could only make sure she'd gone to walk, I'd be jolly glad."
"Ef'n you ax me," she retorted contemptuously, "she ain't de sort, suh,
dat's gwineter traipse jes' fur de love er traipsing.'"
There was small comfort, I saw, to be had from her, so turning away,
while she resumed her plucking, I crawled slowly back through the
bedroom into the hall, and along the hall to the front door, which stood
open. Here the dust of the street rose like steam to my nostrils, and
the stone steps and the brick pavement were thickly coated. A
watering-cart turned the corner, scattering a refreshing spray, and
behind it came a troop of thirsty dogs, licking greedily at the water
before it sank into the dust. The foliage of the trees was scorched to a
livid shade, and the ends of the leaves curled upward as if a flame had
blown by them. Down the street, as I stood there, came the old familiar
cry from a covered wagon: "Water-million! Hyer's yo' watermillion fresh
f'om de vine!"
Clinging to the iron railing, which burned my hand, I descended the
steps with trembling limbs, and stood for a minute in the patch of shade
at the bottom. A negro, seated on the curbing, was drinking the juice
from a melon rind, and he looked up at me with rolling eyes, his
gluttonous red lips moving in rapture.
"Dish yer's a moughty good melon, Marster," he said, and returned to his
feast.
As I was about to place my foot on the bottom step and begin the
difficult ascent, my eyes, raised to our sitting-room window, hung
spellbound on a black and white sign fastened against the panes:
"Fine laundering. Old laces a specialty. Desserts made to order."
"Old laces a specialty," I repeated, as if struck by the phrase. Then,
as my strength failed me, I sank on the stone step in the patch of
shade, and buried my face in my hands.