NEVER FORGET; NEVER FORGIVE
While Ann' Sheba finished her dinner Mara began to open and put in their
places the slender materials which she had purchased as her first step
toward self-support. The generous meal, and especially the coffee
combining with the strong incentive of her purpose, gave elasticity to her
step and flushed her face slightly with color. The old aunty watched her
curiously and sympathetically as she thought, "Bress her heart how purty
she am, bendin' heah an' dar like a willow an' lookin' de lady ebery inch
while she doin' kitchen work! Quar pahner fer sech an ole woman as me ter
hab, but I dun declar dat her han's, ef dey am little, seem po'ful smart.
Dey takes hole on tings jes' as if dey'd coax 'em right along whar she
wants dem!" Then she broke out, "Wot a fool dat Owen Clancy am!"
Mara started and was suddenly busy in a distant part of the room. "I
reckon you are the only one that thinks so, Aun' Sheba," she remarked
quietly.
"Ef he could see you now he'd tink so hisself."
"Very likely," and there was a little bitterness in Mara's accent.
"De mo' fool he be den," said Aun' Sheba with an indignant toss of her
head. "Whar ud his eyes be ef he could see you and not go down on his
marrow-bones, I'd like to know? Habn't I seen all de quality ob dis town?
and dat fer de new quality," with a snap of her fingers, "an you take de
shine off'n dem all eben in de kitchen. Law sakes, what kin' ob blood dat
man Clancy hab to lebe you kase you po'? Pears ter me de ole cun'l, his
fader, ud be orful figety in his coffin."
"Mr. Clancy has not left me because I am poor, Aun' Sheba," said Mara
gravely. "You do him great injustice. We are not so good friends as we
were simply because we cannot agree on certain subjects. But I would
rather you would not talk about him to me or to any one else. Come now,
you must give me some lessons in your mystery of making cakes that melt in
one's mouth. Otherwise people will say you are growing old and losing your
high art."
"Dey better not tell me no sech lies. Law, Missy, you is gwine ter beat me
all holler wen onst you gits de hang ob de work. You little white han's
gib fancy teches dat ain't in my big black han'. Arter all, tain't de
han's; it's de min'. Dere's my darter Mis Watson. Neber could larn her
much mo'n plain cookin'. Dere's a knack at dese tings dat's bawn in one.
It's wot you granpa used ter call genus, an' you allus hab it, eben when
you was a chile an' want ter muss in de kitchen."
Thus full of reminiscence and philosophy eminently satisfactory to her own
mind, Aun' Sheba taught her apt and eager pupil the secrets of her craft.
Mara was up with the dawn on the following day, and achieved fair success.
Other lessons followed, and it was not very long before the girl passed
beyond the imitative stage and began to reason upon the principles
involved in her work and then to experiment.
One day an old customer said to Aun' Sheba: "There's a new hand at the
bellows."
"Dunno not'n 'bout bellus. Ain't de cakes right?"
"Well, then, you've got some new receipts."
"Like a'nuff I hab," said the vender warily. "De pint am, howsumeber,
isn't de cakes good?"
"Yes, they seem better every day, but they are not the same every day. I
reckon some one's coaching you."
"Law sakes, Massa, wo't you mean by coachin' me?"
"Do you make the cakes?" was asked pointblank.
"Now, Massa, you's gittin' too cur'us. Wot de Scripter say? Ask no
questions fer conscience' sake."
"Come, come, Aun' Sheba; if you begin to wrest Scripture, I'll take pains
to find you out."
She shuffled away in some trepidation and shook her head over the problem
of keeping her relations with Mara secret. "Missy puttin' her min' in de
cakes an' I didn't hab much min' to put in an' folks know de dif'ence,"
she soliloquized. Later on she was down among the cotton warehouses, and
finding herself weary and warm, stopped to rest in the shade of a
building. Suddenly Owen Clancy turned the corner. His brow was contracted
as if in deep and not agreeable thought.
Aun' Sheba's lowered at him, for he seemed about to pass her without
noticing her. The moment he became aware of her presence, however, he
stopped and fixed upon her his penetrating gray eyes. His gaze was so
persistent and stern that she was disconcerted, but she spoke with her
accustomed assurance: "You ain't gwine ter call de perlice, is you, Mars'
Clancy?" and she placed her arms akimbo on her hips.
This reference was shrewd, for it reminded him that his grievance was
purely personal and one that he could not resent in her case, yet his
heart was so sore with the suspicion that Mara was looking to this negress
for help instead of to himself, that for the time being he detested the
woman. Love is not a judicial quality, and rarely has patience with those
who interfere with its success. He had hoped that eventually the pressure
of poverty would turn Mara's thoughts to him, especially as he had
revealed so emphatically his wish to help her disinterestedly as a friend
even; but if his present fears were well grounded, he would have to admit
that her heart had grown utterly cold toward him.
"Why should you think of the police, Aun' Sheba, unless you have something
on your mind?" he asked, coolly removing the cover of the basket and
helping himself. "You didn't make these cakes. Did you steal them?"
"Marse Clancy, what you take me fer?"
"That depends on how honest your answers are."'
"I ain't 'bliged ter answer 'tall."
"Oh, you're afraid then."
"No, I ain't afeerd. Ef dey is stolen, you'se a 'ceivin ob stolen goods,
fum de way dem cakes dis'pearin'."
"You're pert, Aun'Sheba."
"Oh co'se I'se peart. Hab to be spry to arn a libin' in dese yer times,
but I can do it fum dem dat's fren'ly and not fum dem dat glower at me."
"Will you tell me if Miss Wallingford--"
"Marse Clancy, hab Miss Wallingford sent you word dat she want you to know
'bout her 'fairs?"
"I understand," he said almost savagely, and throwing a quarter into the
basket he passed on.
There had been a tacit understanding at first that Mara's part in Aun'
Sheba's traffic should not be revealed. The girl had not wholly shaken off
the influence of her aunt's opposition, and she shrank with almost morbid
dread from being the subject of remark even among those of her own class.
The chief and controlling motive for secrecy, however, had been distrust,
the fear that the undertaking would not be successful. As the days had
passed this fear had been removed. Aun' Sheba did not come to make her
returns until after she had taken her supper in the evening, and at about
ten in the morning she reached Mara's home by an unfrequented side street.
There were those, however, who had begun to notice the regularity of her
visits and among them was Owen Clancy. We have also seen that the
daintiness of the viands had caused surmises.
Mara had become preoccupied with her success and with plans for increasing
it. At first Aun' Sheba had supplemented her attempts, and her plan had
been entered on so quietly and carried forward so smoothly that even Mrs.
Hunter was becoming reconciled to the scheme although she tried to conceal
the fact. It would be hard to find two women more ignorant of the world,
or more averse to being known by it, yet from it the unsophisticated girl
now hoped to divert a little sustaining rill of currency without a ripple
of general comment until the hour should come when she could reveal the
truth to Clancy as a rebuke to his course and as a suggestion that a man
might do more and yet not compromise himself. Full of these thoughts and
hopes, her life, if not happy, had at least ceased to stagnate and was
growing in zest and interest.
The day on which occurred the events just narrated was destined to prove a
fateful one. When Aun' Sheba came in the evening it was soon evident that
she had something on her mind. She paid little heed to the accounts while
Mara was writing them down and explaining the margin of profit, as the
girl was always careful to do, for it satisfied her conscience that her
over-loyal partner was prospering now as truly as before. After everything
had been attended to and the programme arranged for the morning, Aun'
Sheba still sat and fidgeted in her chair. Mara leaned back in hers and
looking across the kitchen table said: "Be honest now. There's something
you want to say."
"Don't want ter say it, but s'pose I ought."
"I reckon you had, Aun' Sheba."
The woman's native shrewdness had been sharpened by the varied experience
of her calling, and she had become convinced that the policy of secrecy
would be a failure. What would be Mara's course when compelled to face the
truth, was the question that troubled her. The kind soul hoped that it
would make no difference, and proposed to use all her tact to induce the
girl to continue her enterprise openly, believing that this course would
be best for several reasons. She had the wit to know that Mara would yield
far more out of consideration for her than for any thought of self, so she
said as a masterpiece of strategy, "Marse Clancy ax me to-day if I stole
de cakes."
"What," cried Mara, flushing hotly.
"Jes dat--ef I stole de cakes; an' anoder man say I was gittin' new
reseets or dat somebody was coachin' me, whateber dat is. Den he put it
right straight, 'Did you make 'em?'"
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, I've thoughtlessly been causing trouble. I should have
continued to make the cakes just as you did, and it was only to divert my
mind that I tried other ways. I won't do so any more."
"Dunno 'bout dat, honey."
"Indeed I will not when I promise you."
"I doesn't want any sech a promise. De folks like de new-fangle' cakes
betteh, an' gwine back to de ole way wouldn't do no good. It's all
boun'ter come out dat I'se sellin' fer you as well as fer me. Marse Clancy
axed ef you wasn't, leastways he 'gan to ax when I shut him up."
"How did you shut him up?" said Mara, breathing quickly.
"By axin' him anoder question. Yah, yah, I'se Yankee 'nuff fer dat. I say,
'Hab Miss Wallingford sen' you word dat she want you to know 'bout her
'fairs'?"
"Didn't he say anything after that?"
"Yes, he say 'I understand,' an' I'spect he do, fer he drap a quarter in
my basket an' look as if he was po'ful mad as he walk away. He better min'
his own business."
Mara understood Clancy and Aun' Sheba did not. The young girl was troubled
and perplexed, for she could not but see in her lover's mind the effect of
her step. She felt that it was natural he should be hurt and even angered
to learn that, after all he had offered to do for her, she should avail
herself of Aun' Sheba's services instead of his. What she feared most was
that he would take it as final evidence that she was hostile to him
personally and not merely estranged because he would not conform his views
and life to her own. Her secret and dearest purpose, that of teaching him
that he could live without compromise as she could, might be defeated.
What if the very act should lead to the belief that she no longer wished
to have any part in his life? A girl cannot feel that same toward a man
who has told her openly of his love, for such words break down the
barriers of maidenly reserve even in her own self-communings. Since he had
spoken so plainly she could think more plainly. She knew well how mistaken
Aun' Sheba was in her judgment, but could not explain that Clancy felt he
was not only rejected as a lover but had been ignored even as a helpful
friend; and her own love taught her to gauge the bitterness of this
apparent truth.
She soon became conscious that Aun' Sheba was watching her troubled face,
and to hide her deeper thoughts she said, "Yes, I suppose it is all bound
to come out. Well, let it. You shall not be misjudged." "Law sake, Missy,
wot does I keer! De ting dat trouble me is dat you'se gwine to keer too
much. I doan want you to gib up and I doan want you to be flustered ef you
fin' it's known. De pa'hnership, as you call 'im, been doin' you a heap o'
good. You'se min' been gettin' int'usted an' you fo'gits you'se troubles.
Dat's wot pleases me. Now to my po' sense, folks is a heap betteh off,
takin' keer ob dem selves, dan wen dey worry 'bout wat dis one say an' dat
one do. Dere is lots ob folks dat'll talk 'bout you a month dat won't lif'
dere finger for you a minit. An' wat can dey say, honey, dat'll harm you?
You prouder'n all ob dem, but you got dis kin' ob pride. Ef de rent fall
due you fight again eben you'se ole nuss payin' it. Talk's only breff, but
an empty pocket mean an orful lot ob trouble to folks who ain't willin' to
take out ob dere pocket wat dey didn't put dere."
"Yes, Aun' Sheba, I think it would be the worst kind of trouble."
"I know it ud be fer you, but dar's Unc. He'd like his pocket filled ebery
day an' he wouldn't keer who filled it ef he could spend. He'd say de Lawd
pervided. Unc.'d rather trust de Lawd dan work any day."
"I am afraid you are not very religious," said Mara, smiling.
"Well, I of'n wonder wedder I'se 'ligious or no," resumed Aun' Sheba,
introspectively. "Some sarmons and prars seem like bread made out ob bran,
de bigger de loaf de wuss it is. Unc. says I'se very cole an backsliden,
but I'd be a heap colder ef I didn't keep up de wood-pile.
"And you help others keep up their wood-piles."
"Well, I reckon I does, but dere ain't much 'ligion in dat. Dat's kin' ob
human natur which de preacher say am bad, bery bad stuff. De Lawd knows I
say my prars sho't so as to be up an' doin'. Anyhow I doan belebe he likes
ter be hollered at so, as dey do in our meetin' an' Unc. says dat sech
talk am 'phemous. But dat ain't heah nor dar. We'se gwine right along,
honey, ain't we? We'se gwine ter min' our own business jes' as if we'se
the bigges' pahners in de town?"
"Yes, Aun' Sheba, you can say what you please hereafter, and I want you to
come and go openly. I should have taken the stand before and saved you
from coming out evenings. It has been far more on Aunty's account than on
my own."
"Well, honey, now my min's at res' an' I belebe we do po'ful lot ob trade.
Dat orful human natur gwine to come in now an' I belebe dat folks who know
you an' all 'bout you'se family will help you, 'stid ob talkin' agin you.
You see. You knows I doan' mean no disrespec' to ole Missus, but she'd jes
sit down an' starbe, tinkin' ob de good dinners she orter hab, an' did hab
in de ole times. All you'se folks in hebin is a smilin' on you, honey. Dey
is, fer I feels it in my bones. You'se got de co'age ob you pa an' granpa
an' dey know, jes' as we knows, dat ole Missus take a heap mo' comfort
grumblin' dan in bein' hungry."
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, do you truly think they know about my present life?" the
girl asked, with wet eyes.
"Dat's a bery deep question, honey, but it kin' a seem reason'ble ter me
dat wen you gettin' on well an' wen you doin' good to some po' soul de
Lawd'll sen' an angel to tell 'em. Wen dey ain't hearin' notin' I spects
dey's got to tink as we does dat no news is good news."
The girl was deeply moved, for the vernacular of her old nurse had been
familiar from childhood and did not detract from the sacred themes
suggested. "Oh, that I could have seen my father," she sighed. "Portraits
are so unsatisfying. Tell me again just how he looked."
"He'd be proud ob you, honey, an' you kin be proud ob him. You hab his
eyes, only you'se is bigger and of'n look as if you'se sorrowin' way down
in you soul. Sometimes, eben wen you was a baby, you'd look so long an'
fixed wid you big sad eyes as if you seed it all an' know'd it all dat I
used to boo-hoo right out. Nuder times I'd be skeered, fer you'd reach out
you'se little arms as ef you seed you'se moder an' wanted to go to her. De
Lawd know bes' why he let such folks die. She was like a passion vine
creepin' up de oak--all tender and clingin' an' lubin', wid tears in her
blue eyes ebin wen he pettin' her, an' he was tall an' straight an' strong
wid eyes dat laffed or flashed jes as de 'casion was. I kin see him now
come marchin' down Meetin' Street at de head ob his men, all raised
hisself. He walk straight as an arrow wid his sword flashin' in de
sunshine an' a hundred men step tromp, tromp, arter him as ef dey proud to
follow. Missy Mary stood on de balc'ny lookin' wid all her vi'let eyes an'
wabin' her hank'chief. Oh, how purty she look! de roses in her cheek, her
bref comin' quick, bosom risin' an' fallin', an' she a-tremblin' an' alibe
all ober wid excitement an' pride an' lub. Wen he right afore de balc'ny
his voice rung out like a trumpet, 'Right 'bout, face. 'Sent arms.' I dun
declar dat 'fore we could wink dey was all in line frontin' us wid dere
guns held out. Den he s'lute her wid his sword an' she take a red rose fum
her bosom an' trow it to him an' he pick it up an' put it to his lips; den
it was 'Right 'bout! March!' an' away dey went tromp, tromp, towa'ds de
Bat'ry. I kin see it all. I kin see it all. O Lawd, Lawd, dey's all dead,"
and she rocked back and forth, wiping her eyes with her apron.
Mara sprang up, her streaming tears dried by the hotness of her
indignation as she cried, "And I too can see him, with his little band,
dashing against almost an army and then trodden in the soil he died to
defend. No, no, Owen Clancy, never!"
"Ah," said a low stern voice, "that's the true spirit. Now, Mara, you are
your father's child. Never forget; never forgive," and they saw that Mrs.
Hunter stood with them in the dim kitchen.
"Dunno 'bout dat, Missus. Reckon de wah am ober, an' what we gwine ter do
wid de Lawd's prar? Dar, dar, honey, 'pose you'se nerves. 'Taint bes' to
tink too much ob de ole times, an' I mustn't talk to you so no mo'."