GOOD BROUGHT OUT OF EVIL
There were brave spirits and Heaven-sustained souls in the little camp
which falls under our immediate observation; and outward calm was soon
restored, yet it was long before any one could sleep again. Although she
had trembled like a leaf, Mara had not left her watch by Mrs. Hunter, nor
had Aun' Sheba till some moments after the shock. Then Mrs. Bodine joined
the girl with soothing and reassuring words. She did not tell Mara,
however, of Clancy's illness, feeling that no additional burden should be
imposed until it was necessary. Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby sat together by
the fire; so also did Ella, with her head upon her father's breast, as she
told of the great joy which robbed the night of so much of its terror. Old
Tobe, with Sam and Jube, crouched on the opposite side of the low,
flickering blaze, which lighted up in odd effect the white wool and
wrinkled visage of the aged negro. In some respects he and Mr. Houghton
were alike. The scenes they were passing through toned down their fiery
domineering spirits into resignation and fortitude.
George was restless, strong and inspired rather than awed by the recent
events. He knew that Ella's eyes followed him as he came and went from his
father's bedside, waited on Clancy, and made himself useful in other ways.
A man would be craven indeed who could not be brave under such
circumstances.
Beyond his camp, scenes impossible to describe were taking place. White
clergymen were going from group to group, and from shelter to shelter,
speaking words of cheer and hope. Physicians were busy among those who
needed physical aid; husbands soothing wives, and parents their sobbing
children.
On the edge of the square near the street the groans and cries of a woman
began to draw the restless people who always run to any point of
disturbance.
"George," shouted Dr. Devoe. The young man responded promptly. "Keep this
crowd away--the vulgar wretches!"
A woman of refinement and wealth, who with her husband had clung to their
adjacent home until the last shock occurred, was in the throes of
childbirth.
No one could stand a moment before the young man's words and aspect, and
in a few moments he secured all the privacy possible.
Eventually he bore the almost swooning mother to the inner room under the
awning, where a bed had been made for her, while Mrs. Bodine and Mrs.
Willoughby cared for the child. The husband was so prostrated by anxiety
for his wife as to be almost helpless himself.
Among a certain class of the negroes, to religious excitement was added
the wild terror of the earthquake, and they were simply becoming frantic
in their actions and expressions. George, Dr. Devoe, Mr. Willoughby and
some others went to the large group of which old Hannah and two great
burly exhorters were the inspiration. They commanded and implored them to
be more quiet, but received only insolent replies.
"We'se savin' de city which de wickedness ob you white folks is
'stroyin'," one of the shepherds shouted; "an' we'se gwine to cry loud and
mighty till mawnin'."
At this moment, George espied Uncle Sheba, who certainly appeared, in the
general craze, to have a sense of his besetting sin; for he was yelling at
the top of his lungs, "I'se gwine ter wuck in de mawnin'."
Suddenly there burst through the crowd an apparition before which he
quailed; his jaw dropped and his howl degenerated into a groan. Aun' Sheba
had heard and recognized his voice, and she went through the throng like a
puffing tug through driftwood. "Mister Buggone," she said, with the
sternness of fate, "ef yer doan stop yer noise you'se 'lowance stop heah
and now. Yer'll hab ter wuck shuah or starbe, fer if yer doan come wid me
now yer neber come agin."
Uncle Sheba went away with her, meek as a lamb.
The others were too frenzied even to notice this little scene. George, Mr.
Willoughby, and some others were with difficulty restrained by the cooler
Dr. Devoe. "Go with me to the station-house," he said. "In behalf of my
patients I will demand that this nuisance be abated."
The officer on duty returned with them, backed by a resolute body of men.
The two exhorters were told to take their choice between silence and the
station-house. There is usually a good deal of selfish method in such
leaders' madness, and they sullenly retired. Poor, demented Hannah was
bundled away, and comparative quiet restored through the square.
The weary hours dragged on; the uneasy earth caused no further alarms that
night. At last the dawn was again greeted with thankfulness beyond words.
There was no paper that morning, for compositors and pressmen could not be
induced to work, and at first there was a feeling of great uncertainty and
depression.
Mrs. Bodine's spirit was again like a cork on the surface. At breakfast
she remarked, "We had an awful time last night, but here we are still
alive, and able to take some nourishment. I expect the Northern papers
will say that this wicked and rebellious old city is getting its deserts;
but we shall soon have help and cheer from our Southern friends."
"I think you will find yourself mistaken, Mrs. Bodine, about the North,"
said George.
"Oh. you!" cried the old lady, laughing, "you look at the South through a
pair of blue eyes. I reckon we shall have to send you and Ella North as
missionaries."
George in his pride and happiness could not keep his secret, and had been
congratulated with honest heartiness. He therefore responded gayly, "When
I take Ella North even earthquakes won't keep young fellows from coming
here to see if any more like her are left."
Again Ella remarked, nodding significantly, "Time will cure him, Cousin
Sophy."
Nevertheless the illness of Mrs. Hunter and Clancy, and the precarious
condition of the young mother, cast a gloom over the little party.
Clancy's pulse indicated great exhaustion, and he only recognized people
when he was spoken to. Dr. Devoe prohibited any one from going near him
except himself and George. Miss Ainsley uttered no protest at this. She
truly felt that after the events of the night all was over between them.
In a sort of sullen shame she said little and longed only for the hour
which would bring her father and escape.
Mr. Ainsley arrived during the morning, and George entertained him
hospitably. His daughter clung to him, imploring him to take her away at
the first possible moment. He was much distressed at Clancy's condition,
and offered to take him North also; but Dr. Devoe said authoritatively,
"He is too ill to be moved or even spoken to." Mrs. Willoughby and her
husband were determined that Miss Ainsley should not give her father a
false impression, and spoke freely of Clancy's great exertions. "Yes,"
added Dr. Devoe, "I feel guilty myself. He should have been taken in hand
yesterday afternoon and compelled to be quiet in mind and body, but I had
so many to look after, and he seemed the embodiment of energy and
fearlessness. Well, it's too late now, and we must do the best we can for
him."
That day Mr. Ainsley and his daughter left the city. She gave vivid
descriptions of the catastrophe at the North, but her friends remarked
upon her fine reserve and modesty in speaking of her personal experiences.
Her faultless veneer was soon restored, and we suppose she is pursuing her
career of getting the most and best out of life after a fashion which has
too many imitators.
Poor Mara's name was significant of her experience of that day and others
which followed. In the morning she learned of Clancy's illness, and it was
eventually found that her voice and touch had a soothing effect possessed
by no other.
We have followed our characters through the climax of their experiences,
and need only to suggest what further happened. They, with others,
realized more fully the conditions of their lot and the extent of the
disaster.
With an ever-increasing courage and fortitude the people faced the
situation, and resolved to build anew the fortunes of their city.
Communication with the outside world permitted messages of sympathy and
far more. In the Sunday morning issue of the "News and Courier" the
following significant editorial appeared: "There is no break in the broad
line of brotherly love throughout the United States. All hearts in this
mighty country throb in unison. In the North as in the South, in the West
as in the East, there is a sincere sorrow at the calamity which has
befallen Charleston, and there is shining evidence of a beneficent desire
to give the suffering people the assistance of both act and word."
Boston, the former headquarters of the abolitionists, and the veterans of
the Grand Army vied with Southern cities and ex-Confederates in a
spontaneous outpouring of sympathy and help. The hearts of a proud people
were at last subdued, but it was by hands stretched out in fraternal love
and not to strike.
In the city squares and other places of refuge there still continued sad
and awful experiences, one of which was graphically described by the city
editor of the journal already quoted.
At nearly midnight on Friday there had been a cessation in the shocks for
about twenty-four hours, and the people were resting quietly. Then came a
convulsion second only in severity to the first one which had wrought such
widespread ruin. "It had scarcely died away," to quote from the account
referred to, "before there rose through the still night air in the
direction of the public squares and parks the now familiar but still
terrible cries of thousands of wailing voices, united in one vast chorus,
expressive only of the utmost human misery. For a while this sound was
heard above all other sounds, suggesting vividly to the mind what has been
told by survivors of the scene that follows the sinking of a great ship at
sea, when its living freight is left struggling with the waves; and this
impression was heightened to the distant auditor by the gradual diminution
in the volume of the cries, as though voice after voice were being
silenced, as life after life were quenched beneath the tossing waves."
Dr. Devoe advised Mr. Houghton to leave the city, but he said, "No, I
shall remain with my children; I shall share in the fortunes of the city
which is henceforth to be my home."
Mrs. Hunter did not long survive, but she became quiet and rational before
her end. To Mara's imploring words she replied calmly, "No, my time is
near; and I feel that it is best. I belong to the old order of things, and
have lingered too long already. I may have been mistaken in my feelings,
and wrong in my enmities, but I had great provocation. Now I forgive as I
hope to be forgiven. God grant, dear child, that you may have brighter
days."
A sad little company followed her to the cemetery, and as they laid her to
rest, they also spread over her memory the mantle of a broad, loving
charity.
For a time it seemed as if brighter days could never come to Mara, for
Clancy's life flickered like the light of an expiring candle. At last the
fever broke and he became rational, the pure, open air conducing to his
recovery. He was very weak and his convalescence was slow, measuring the
mental and physical strain through which he had passed. Never had a poor
mortal more faithful watchers, never was life wooed back from the dark
shore by more devoted love. "Live, live," was ever the language of Mara's
eyes, and happiness gave him the power to live.
Captain Bodine carried out both the letter and spirit of his note. While
he was very gentle, he was also very firm with Mara, expressing only
paternal affection and also exerting paternal authority. At proper times
he told her to go and rest in tones which she obeyed.
One day when Clancy was able to sit up a little, he took her aside and
said, "Mara, you and Mr. Clancy are in one sense comparatively alone in
the world, although you have many stanch friends. His health, almost his
life, requires the faithful, watchful care which you can best give, and
which you are entitled to give. It is his wish and mine, also Cousin
Sophy's, that you should be married at once."
Again she gave him that luminous look which he so well remembered--an
expression so full of homage, affection and sympathy that for the first
time tears came into his eyes. "There, my child," he said, "you have
repaid me, you have compensated me for everything. There is no need of
words"--and he turned hastily away.
When the sun was near the horizon Mara was married, not in old St.
Michael's, as her mother had been, but in the large tent which of late had
sheltered her lover. Her pastor employed the old sacred words to which her
mother had responded; and Captain Bodine, with the impress of calm,
victorious manhood on his brow, gave her away in the presence of the
little group of those who knew her best and loved her most. We may well
believe from that time forth her gentleness and happiness would change the
meaning of her name.
At last all ventured back to their homes. Mr. Houghton was so averse to
parting with Ella that he equalled George in his impatience for the
marriage. Aun' Sheba, who supervised preparations for the wedding
breakfast, declared, "It am jes jolly ter see old Marse Houghton. As fer
Missus Bodine, it pears as if she'd go off de han'l."
Then father and son took the blue-eyed bride to the North on a visit, in
what George characterized as a "sort of triumphal procession."
The cabins of Aun' Sheba and Kern Watson were restored to a condition
better than their former state, but Uncle Sheba discovered that the good
old times of his wife's easy tolerance were gone. She put the case
plainly, "Mr. Buggone, de Bible says dat dem dat doesn't wuck mus'n't eat,
an' I'se gwine ter stick ter de Bible troo tick an' tin. You'se able to
wuck as I be, an' you'se 'lowance now 'pends on you'se wuck."
We have already seen that Uncle Sheba was one of those philosophers who
always submit to the inevitable.
Late one September night the moonbeams shone under the moss-draped
branches of a live oak in a cemetery. They brought out in snowy whiteness
a small headstone on which were engraved the words, "Yes, Vilet." Sitting
by the grave and leaning his head against the stone was Kern Watson, but
his calm, strong face was turned heavenward where his little girl waited
for him "shuah."
THE END