HOPE TURNED INTO DREAD
Clancy was guided by the voice of Aun' Sheba, the wailing of Sissy, and
the groans and unearthly sounds to which Uncle Sheba was giving utterance.
The adjacent fire was so far subdued that only a red glow in the sky above
marked the spot. The stars shone in calm, mocking serenity on the wide
scene of human distress and fear. "Alas," he thought, "what atoms we are;
and what an atom is this earth itself! It would seem that faith is the
simplest, yet mightiest effort of the mind at such a time," and he paused
till Aun' Sheba should be more free to listen to him.
Mr. Birdsall, with his youngest child in his arms, had been exhorting
those of his people near him, but his words had been of little effect in
quieting Sissy and Uncle Sheba. The latter had concluded that he would not
wait till the coming winter before again "'speriencin 'ligion," and his
uncouth appeals to Heaven were but the abject expression of animal fear.
Aun' Sheba had lost her patience with both him and her daughter, and was
expostulating vigorously. "I'se asham on you, Sissy," she said. "Wot good
de 'ligion you 'fess do you, I'd like ter know? Ain't Vilet in Hebin?
Ain't you got de bes husban bawn? Ain't de oder chil'n heah? Now ef you'se
'ligion any good 'tall, be quiet an tankful dat you bettah off dan
hun'erds. Unc., you kin pray all you wants, but ef you specs de Lawd ter
listen you'se got ter pray like a man an not like a hog dat wants his
dinnah. You'se 'sturbin everybody wuss dan you did wen you got sot on. I
won hab it said my folks made a rumpus in dis time ob trouble. You'se got
ter min me, Mr. Buggone, or I'se hab you took out de squar."
Uncle Sheba was never so far gone in his fears but that he shrunk from
facing anything worse, and so he subsided into low inarticulate groans.
Sissy was not so tractable, for her weeping was largely nervous and
hysterical. She had an affectionate emotional nature, but was far from
being gifted with the strength of mind and character possessed by her
mother and husband.
"Aun' Sheba," said Clancy kindly, "your daughter needs something to quiet
her nerves. I will bring it to her." He soon returned with medicine from
the doctor, and under its influence the bereaved mother became calmer and
wept softly by her dead child.
Clancy drew Aun' Sheba a little apart so that others could not hear, even
if any were disposed to listen at this time of intense preoccupation. "You
have been a friend indeed to-night," he said. "I must ask another proof of
your good-will. The earthquake has brought trouble enough, but I fear that
Mara and I have brought greater trouble upon ourselves. Probably you've
seen enough to explain what I mean."
"I'se seen a heap, Marse Clancy."
"Well, you are Mara's old nurse. She loves and trusts you. She is engaged
to Captain Bodine."
"She ain't mar'ed to 'im."
"She feels herself bound, and has said that if I was a true Southern
gentleman I would not interfere. This is bad enough, but there's worse
still. I thought she was lost to me--you know about it, I reckon."
"Yes, I knows now. I was a blin ole fool an tink it was wuckin' so hard
dat made her po'ly."
"Oh, we have both made such fatal mistakes! I, like a fool, when I
believed she would never speak to me again, entangled myself also. Now,
Aun' Sheba, what I wish is that you say nothing to any one of what you
have seen and heard. We've got to do what's honorable at every cost to
ourselves."
"Dus wot's hon'ble mean dat Missy Mara got ter mar'y Marse Bodine an you
de limpsey-slimpsey one wot say you 'serted her?"
"Nothing else seems to be left for us."
"'Pears ter me, Marse Clancy, you an Missy Mara gittin orful muxed up in
wot's hon'ble. I'se only got wot folks calls hoss-sense, but it's dead
agin you bofe. Take you now. Fust you got ter tell de gal lies, den lies
to her fader an de minister wot jines you, and de hull worl. Missy Mara ud
hab ter lie like de debil, too, an you bofe go on lyin 'miscuously.
Anyhow, you'se hab ter act out de lies ef you didn't say 'em. 'Ud dat be
hon'ble wen all de time you'se yearnin fer each oder?"
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, it's hard enough without such words as yours!"
"Ob corse it's hard. It orter be, fer it's agin de Lawd an natur. Marse
Clancy, took keer wot you do, an wot you let Missy Mara do. My 'sperience
teach me a heap. S'pose I doan' know de dif'ence 'tween Unc. dar an a man
like Kern? I was young an foolish once, an mar'ed Unc. kase he was good
lookin den, an mo' kase he ax me. Well, I'se made de bes on it, an I'se
gwine ter make de bes on it; but if de yearth crack right open heah, as
like 'nuff 'twill 'fo' mawnin, I'd jump right down in de crack 'fo' I'd do
it ober ag'in. You'se on de safe side ob de crack yit, so be keerful. I
knows woman folks soon as I claps my eyes on dem. Miss Mara quar in her
notions 'bout de Norf--she was brung up to 'em--but dere's nuff woman in
my honey lam' to make a tousan ob dis yere limpsey-slimpsey one."
Clancy clinched his hands in mental distress as he listened to the hard
sense and unerring judgment of the sagacious old woman.
"I'm in terrible perplexity," he said, "for there is so much truth in your
words. How can I escape the consequences of my own acts? Think how Miss
Ainsley stood by me in my unconsciousness! When I revived--"
"Dar now, Marse Clancy, you'se been fooled. She stood by hersef. De fac
am, she didn't stan 'tall, but run like a deer, hollerin fer all she's
wuth. Wen you swoonded, Missy Mara cotch you in her arms. I eben run away,
an lef my honey lam' mysef, but I come back sudden, an dar she was a hol'n
you head in her lap right uner a big bildin dat ud a squashed her. I drag
you pass dat, an den Marse Bodine jes ordered me an Missy to go to de
squar. He spoke stern an strong as if we his sogers. An Missy Mara look
'im in de eyes an say, you--dat's you, Marse Clancy--may be dead, or you
may be dyin, an dat she can't leab you an she won leab you. She got de
grit ob true lub, an dere'll neber be any runin away in her heart. Wot you
an Marse Bodine gwine ter do 'bout sich lub as dat? 'Fo' de Lawd my honey
lam' die ef you an Marse Bodine 'sist on bein so orful hon'ble. She ain't
one dem kin' dat takes a husban like dey takes a breakfas kase its ready."
Clancy was so profoundly moved by what he heard that he turned away to
hide his emotion. After a moment he said: "You have been true and
faithful, Aun' Sheba. You won't be sorry. Please do as I have asked." And
he hastened away.
"Reckon I put a spoke in dat hon'ble bizness," Aun' Sheba soliloquized.
"Like 'nuff I put another in. Doan cotch me hep'n along any sich
foolishness. I gibs no promise, an I'se gwine ter make my honey lam' happy
spite hersef." Then she took one of her grandchildren, and soothed it to
sleep.
The slow hours dragged wearily on; the majority of the white people
quieted down to patient, yet fearful waiting; crying children, one after
another, dropped off to sleep; parents and friends watched over them and
one another, conversing in low tones or praying silently for the Divine
mercy, never before felt to be so essential. The negroes were more
demonstrative, and their loud prayers and singing of hymns continued
without abatement or hindrance. The expressions of some were so
extravagant and uncouth as to grate harshly on all natures possessing any
refinement; but when such men as Mr. Birdsall exhorted or prayed, there
were but few among the whites who did not listen reverently, and in their
hearts acknowledge the substantial truth of the words spoken and their
need of the petitions offered.
Clancy went back to his watch. Few men in the city were more troubled and
perplexed than he, for he had not the calmness resulting from a definite
purpose as was true of Bodine.
Unmovedly the two men remained at their posts of duty awaiting the day or
what might happen before the dawn. George lay down beside his father, and
soon slept from fatigue, while Mr. Houghton, now so softened and
chastened, vowed to make him happy.
Ella watched her father in deep solicitude, feeling vaguely that his
trouble was not caused wholly by the general reasons for distress. At last
she stole to his side, and laid her head upon his shoulder. The act
comforted and sustained him more than she knew at the time, for he was not
a demonstrative man. He only kissed her tenderly and bade her return to
her cousin, with whom she kept up a whispered and fragmentary
conversation. Mrs. Willoughby sat beside her husband, her head pillowed
against his breast as they waited for the day.
A breeze sprang up, and the freshness of the morning was in it. Would the
sun ever rise again? Was not Nature so out of joint that nothing familiar
could be looked for any more? The terrors of the long night inspired
morbid thoughts, which come too readily in darkness.
At the appointed time, however, there was a glow in the east, which
steadily deepened in color. Truly, to the weary, haggard, shivering,
half-clad watchers, the sun was an angel of light that morning; and never
did fire-worshippers greet his rise with a deeper feeling of gratitude and
gladness.
There was a general stir in the strange bivouac, an increased murmur of
voices. The hymns of the negroes gradually ceased; and people, singly or
in groups, began to leave the square for their homes, in order to clothe
themselves more fully, and to discover what was left to them in the
general wreck.
There had been no shock since the convulsion at half-past two o'clock, the
fact inspiring general confidence that the worst was over. Hope grew
stronger with the blessed light, and fear vanished with the darkness.
Mr. Houghton touched his son, who immediately awoke, meditating deeds of
hospitality. "Father," he said, "our house is near. Cannot I, with the aid
of Jube and Sam, get our friends some breakfast?"
"Yes, George, and extend the invitation from me."
"Oh, father! I'm so grateful that you are giving me this chance to--to--"
"You shall have all the chance you wish. In fact, I'm rather inclined to
see what I can do myself. I may need a good deal of nursing." And the old
man's face was lighted up with a kindly smile, which made his son
positively happy.
Approaching Bodine, he asked, "Do you think it will be safe for the
invalids to leave the square?"
"I scarcely think so," was the reply. "At least, not until more time
passes without disturbance. From what I've read of earthquakes, our houses
may be unsafe for days to come."
"Well, the first thing to be done is to see that you all have some
breakfast. Fortunately, our house is not far; and, although our
women-servants have fled, I have two men who will stand by me. The fact
is, my hunting expeditions have made me a fairly good cook myself. My
father cordially extends the invitation that all my friends here breakfast
with us."
"I will join in your labors, Houghton," said Clancy, promptly. "Having no
home, I gratefully accept your father's invitation."
"We're all shipwrecked on a desert island," added Mrs. Bodine cheerily to
George. "You appear to be one of the friendly natives, and I put myself
under your protection."
"Our custom here is," replied the young fellow in like vein, "that, after
we have taken salt together, we become fast friends."
"Bring on the salt, then," she answered laughing, while Ella's smile
seemed to the young fellow more vivifying than the first level rays of the
sun. Mara, Mrs. Hunter, and Miss Ainsley were still sleeping, as also was
Dr. Devoe.
"Houghton," called Mr. Willoughby, "won't you enroll me as one of your
cooks or waiters?"
"No," replied George, "I must leave you and Captain Bodine in charge of
camp."
"Too many cooks spile de brof," said Aun' Sheba, rising from Mara's side
where she had been watching for the last hour. "Marse Houghton, you bery
fine cook fer de woods, I spec, but I reckon I kin gib a lil extra tech to
de doin's."
"Ah, Aun' Sheba, if you'll come, you shall be chief cook, and I, for one,
promise to obey. Mrs. Willoughby, I'm so very glad that I can now return a
little of your kindness."
"I take back what I said about absolving you," she whispered.
"You'd better. If I don't make the most of my chance now my name is not
George Houghton. Of course I shan't say anything while these troubles
last. You understand, I don't wish anything to happen which would
embarrass her, or make it hard to accept what I can do for her and hers;
but when the right time comes," and he nodded significantly.
"You are on the right tack as you boatmen say," she whispered laughing.
"See here, Houghton," remarked jolly Mr. Willoughby, "earthquakes and
secret conferences with my wife are more than a fellow can stand at one
and the same time."
"You shall soon have consolation," said George, hastening away, followed
by Clancy, Aun' Sheba, Jube, and Sam. When the last-named worthy appeared
near Mr. Houghton's barn the horses whinnied and the two dogs barked
joyously.
"Mr. Clancy," said George, handing him his pocket-book, "since you have
kindly offered to aid, please take Jube and visit the nearest butcher's
shop and bakery. I suggest that you lay in a large supply, for we don't
know what may happen. Please get eggs, canned delicacies, anything you
think best. Don't spare money. Help yourself, if owners are absent. I will
honor all your I.O.U's."
"All right, Houghton; but remember that I'm an active partner in this
catering business. Fortunately I don't need to go to the bank for money."
Aun' Sheba exclaimed over the evidences of disaster along the street, but
when she saw what a wreck Mr. Houghton's massive portico had become she
lifted her hands in dismay.
"That don't trouble me," said George, "since I'm not under it. I passed
beneath a second or two before it fell."
"De Lawd be praised! 'Pears ter me He know wot He 'bout, an is gwine ter
bring down pride ez well ez piazzers."
"It looks that way, Aun' Sheba. Here, Sam, make the kitchen fire before
you do anything else. Now we must rummage and see what we can find."
Aun' Sheba took possession of the kitchen, and with broom, mop, and
cloths, soon brought order out of chaos. Sam found that although the
chimney had lost its top, it fortunately drew, and the fire in the range
speedily proved all that could be desired. George ravaged the store-closet
until Aun' Sheba said, "Nuff heah already ter feed de squar."
Then he went up and looked about the poor wrecked home, meanwhile setting
Sam to dusting chairs and carrying them to the square. Then a table,
crockery, knives, forks, spoons, napkins, etc., were despatched.
Clancy and Jube found that the proprietors of some of the shops were
plucking up courage to enter them and resume trade, and so they eventually
returned well laden with provisions. Then Jube was sent with wash-basins,
water and towels for ablutions. Meantime George and Clancy took a hasty
bath and exchanged their ruined clothing for clean apparel.
"Houghton, you are a godsend to us all," exclaimed his friend.
"I suppose the whole affair is a godsend," was the reply; "anyway, I'm
getting my satisfaction out of it this morning."
As sprightly Mrs. Willoughby saw the applicances for their comfort
following one after another she said to Ella, "We may as well make believe
that it is a picnic."
Ella smiled and replied, "I'm better dressed for breakfast than you are,
for I have on a wrapper, and you are in a low-necked evening costume."
"I feel as if I could eat a breakfast all the same. What creatures these
mortals be! A little while ago I was in the depths of misery, and now I'm
hungry and kind of happy."
"Oh, you are," said her husband, "when you may have to take in washing for
a living, while I shovel brick and mortar."
"No, indeed," cried his wife, "I'll join the firm of Wallingford and
Bodine, and you can help Aun' Sheba peddle cakes."
"That's right, children," said Mrs. Bodine, "that's the true brave
Southern spirit. We are all born soldiers, seamen rather, since the land
has been as freakish as the waves. Now mind, I'll send the first one below
who shows the white feather."
Mr. Houghton lay apart from this group; and, while he felt his isolation,
knew that he was to blame for it. They also felt the awkwardness of their
situation, not knowing how far he was willing or able to converse with
them. Mr. Willoughby was about to break the ice, but Ella forestalled him.
"Mr. Houghton," she said, timidly approaching, "is there anything we can
do for you? We are all so grateful."
"Yes, Miss Bodine. Forget and forgive."
"There seems very little now to forgive, and we do not wish to forget your
kindness."
"Good Lor!" whispered Mrs. Bodine to Mrs. Willoughby, "I couldn't have
turned a neater sentence myself."
"Well, Miss Bodine," resumed Mr. Houghton, "I suppose we shall have to let
bygones be bygones. Now that sunshine and brightness have come, we should
not recall anything painful. I trust that the worst is over, but our
courage may yet be sorely tried. I will esteem it a very great favor if
you and your friends will accept without reluctance what my son can do for
your comfort."
Ella could not repress a little laugh of pleasure as she replied, "It is
too late now to affect any reluctance. We owe him so much that we might as
well owe him more." Then, ever practical, she arranged a screen to shade
his face from the sun's rays.
Mr. Willoughby now came up and spoke in a friendly way of the probable
effects of the disaster upon the city, and so the touch of mutual kindness
began to make them kin.
Mrs. Hunter commenced to moan and toss, and this awakened Miss Ainsley,
who looked around wonderingly. Mrs. Willoughby in low tones recalled what
had happened, and explained the present aspect of affairs. Mrs. Bodine
performed the same office for Mara, who also had been aroused by the
voices near. The girl's habit of self-control served her in good stead,
and she immediately rose, gave her hand to Bodine in greeting, and then
knelt beside her aunt. Seeing Mara so near, Miss Ainsley quickly rose
also, and moved away in instinctive antipathy.
Mrs. Hunter was feverish and evidently very ill. She was unable to
comprehend what was taking place, but recognized Mara, whose soothing
touch and words alone had the power of quieting her.
Ella bathed Mrs. Bodine's face and hands, and enabled her to make "the
ghost of a toilet," as the old lady said. Then Ella whispered, "I wish I
could do as much for Mr. Houghton."
"I dare you to do it," said Mrs. Bodine, with a mirthful gleam in her
eyes.
Ella caught her spirit, and without hesitation, although blushing like a
rose, went to Mr. Houghton, and asked, "Will you please let me bathe your
hands and face also?"
"Why, Miss Bodine, I should not expect such kindness from you. I can wait
till my son returns."
"He is doing so much that he will be tired. It would give me pleasure if
you will permit it. In waiting on my cousin I've learned to be not a very
awkward nurse."
"Well, Miss Bodine, I am learning that even earthquakes can bring pleasant
compensations. You shall have your own way. Yes, you are a good nurse, and
a brave and patient one. Your kindness to that poor creature who died in
your arms touched my heart."
"And mine too, Mr. Houghton. She told me a very pitiful story."
"You shall tell it to me some time, my dear."
Her heart thrilled as he gently spoke these words, while George, striding
up with a great platter of steak, almost dropped it as he saw the girl
waiting on his father as if filial relations were already established. The
old man enjoyed his look of pleased wonder, and, when he had a chance,
whispered, "I'm getting ahead of you, my boy, I don't want your clumsy
hands or Jube's around me any more." Mrs. Bodine put her head under the
blanket and shook with silent laughter.
Ella was very shy of the young man, however. He could not catch her eye,
nor get a chance to speak to her except in the presence of her father,
Mrs. Bodine, or some one else. But he possessed his soul in patience, and
did his best to be a genial host. Clancy, Jube, and Sam followed with the
coffee and various comestibles. Miss Ainsley was a little effusive in her
greeting of the man whom she had deserted in the street, and again had
left to pass the night as he could, while she sought oblivion. His
response was grave, kind, yet not altogether reassuring. He certainly
indulged in no lover-like glances; and he went direct to Mara, and
inquired gently after Mrs. Hunter. She replied quietly, without looking
up. It was evident that the sound of his voice distressed the injured
woman, who was barely conscious enough to have vague memories of the past.
Weary Dr. Devoe was wakened, while George gave Mrs. Willoughby his arm,
and gallantly placed her behind the coffee-urn. Even Captain Bodine
assumed a measure of cheerfulness during breakfast. When newsboys came
galloping up with the morning paper, Mr. Willoughby rose and waved his
hat, joining in the general hurrah which rose from all parts of the
square. Every one warmly appreciated the heroism displayed in gathering
news and printing a journal during the past night. Next to the vivifying
light and the apparent cessation of the shocks, nothing did more to
restore confidence than the appearance of the familiar paper.
"Old Charleston is alive yet," cried Mr. Willoughby; "and if the rest of
us have half the pluck shown in that printing-house, we'll soon restore
everything."
"Give me a paper," said Mrs. Bodine. "I'd rather have it than my
breakfast."
"You shall have both," replied Ella, bringing a little tray to her side.
"Ah, Cousin Hugh, you veterans never did anything braver. Own up."
"I do, most sincerely and heartily."
Clancy read the journal aloud; and the coffee grew cold as all listened
breathlessly to a chapter in the city's history never to be forgotten. Mr.
Houghton was so absorbed that he suddenly became conscious that Ella was
beside him with the daintiest of breakfasts. "You are spoiling me for any
other nurse," he said.
"It is a relief at such a time to care for those who are ill and feeble,"
she replied gently. "If we have to stay here, I hope you will let me wait
on you; but I trust that we can all soon go to our homes."
"I have my doubts. Now give me the pleasure of seeing you make a good
meal."
"Mr. Clancy," cried Mrs. Willoughby, "in the general chaos women may
obtain their just pre-eminence. I shall take the lead by ordering you to
lay down that paper, so that you and others may have a hot breakfast."
Mara could be induced to take nothing beyond a cup of coffee. In spite of
the sunshine and the general reaction into hopefulness and courage, she
felt that black chaos was coming into her life. Her aunt and natural
protector was very ill. After the events of the night she shrank
inexpressibly from her former relations to Bodine. Indeed, it seemed
impossible to continue them. Yet she asked herself again and again, "What
else is there for me?" He was very kind, but the expression of his face
was inscrutable. Moreover, there was Miss Ainsley acting as if Clancy were
her own natural property, and he unable to dispute her claims. It appeared
to her that poor stricken Mrs. Hunter was her only refuge, and she
resolved to remain close by the invalid's side.
With the coming of the day Uncle Sheba's most poignant fears had gradually
subsided. He kept his eyes on his wife, feeling that any good that he
might hope for in this world would come through her. Indeed the impression
was growing that the greatest immediate good to be obtained from any world
was a breakfast; and when Aun' Sheba went with George to his home, Unc.
also followed at a discreet distance. The result was that his wife again
had to put him on a "'lowance," or little would have been left in Mr.
Houghton's kitchen. He surreptitiously stuffed a few eatables into his
pocket, and then went out to smoke his pipe.
Breakfast was at last over at the square. Mr. Willoughby rose and said to
his wife, "I will go to the house, and get more suitable costumes for you
and Carrie. Houghton will loan you a dressing-room at his house, for the
streets can be scarcely suitable for you to traverse yet. I'll bring a
carriage for you, however, as soon as it is possible. Serious danger is
now over, I hope."
He had scarcely uttered the words when, as if in mockery, far in the
southeast was heard again the sound which appalled the stoutest hearts. On
it came, as if a lightning express-train were thundering down upon them.
They saw the tops of distant trees nod and sway as if agitated by a gale;
men, women, and children rushing again, with loud cries, from their homes;
then it seemed as if some subterranean monster was tearing its way through
the earth.
The moment the paralysis of terror passed, Miss Ainsley threw herself
shrieking upon Clancy, who was compelled to support and soothe her. Mara
covered her face with her hands, trembled violently, but uttered no sound.
Ella could not repress a cry, as she hid her face upon her father's
breast, a cry echoed by Mrs. Willoughby as she and her husband clung
together. George knelt, holding the hand of his father, who looked at his
son with the feeling that, if the end had come, his boy should be the last
object on which his eyes rested. Mrs. Bodine was as composed as the
veteran himself, and simply looked heavenward. There was something so
terrific in the immeasurable power of the convulsion, so suggestive of
immediate and awful death, that few indeed could maintain any degree of
fortitude.
There was one, however, a few rods away, who scarcely noticed the shock.
Kern Watson, at last released from duty, sat on the ground, with his face
buried in the neck of his dead child. He did not raise his head, and
trembled only as the quivering earth agitated his form.