futility of any and every endeavor to control the privileged and
devotedly loving old nurse. She had come to the camp to stay, and she
was going to stay in spite of all protest and all authority.
“There’s nothing for it, Cousin Arthur,” said Dorothy, with the tears
slipping out from between her eyelids, “but to let dear old Mammy have
her way. You see she’s had charge of me ever since I was born, and I
suppose I belong to her. It was she who taught me how badly women need
somebody to control them and how bad they are if they haven’t a master.
She’ll stay here as long as I do, you may be sure of that, and she’ll
love me and scold me, and keep me in order generally, till this thing is
over, no matter what you or anybody else may say to the contrary. So
please, Cousin Arthur, make some of the men build a particularly
comfortable shelter for her and me. She wouldn’t care for herself, even
if she slept on the ground out of doors, but she’ll be a turbulent
disturber of the camp if you don’t treat me like a princess--though
personally I only want to serve and could make myself comfortable
anywhere.”
“I’ll see that you have good quarters, Dorothy,” answered the young man
in a determined tone. “I’d do that anyhow. But what’s all that you’ve
got there in your big bundle, Mammy?”
“Oh, nuffin but a few dispensable ingridiments, Mas’ Arthur. Jes’ a few
blankets an’ quilts an’ pillars an’ four cha’rs an’ a feather bed an’ a
coffee pot an’ some andirons an’ some light wood, an’ a lookin’ glass,
and a wash bowl and pitcher an’ jes a few other little inconveniences
fer my precious chile.”
For answer Arthur turned to Randall, the head carpenter of the
plantation, and said:
“Randall, there’s a lot of dressed lumber under the shed of the wheat
barn. I’ll have it brought over here at once. I want you to take all the
men you need--your Mas’ Archer Bannister is sending over four carpenters
to help and your Mas’ John Meaux is sending three--and if you don’t get
a comfortable little house for your Miss Dorothy built before the moon
rises, I shall want to know why. Get to work at once. Put the house on
this mound. Build a stick and mud chimney to it, so that there can be a
fire tonight. Three rooms with a kitchen at the back will be enough, but
mind you are to have it ready before the moon rises, do you hear?”
“It’ll be ready Mahstah, er Randall won’t let nobody call him a
carpenter agin fer a mighty long time. Ef Miss Dorothy is a gwine to
nuss de folks while dey’s sick you kin jes bet yer sweet life de folks
what’s well an’ strong is a gwine to make her comfortable.”
“Amen!” shouted three or four of the others in enthusiastic unison.
Dorothy was not there to hear. She had already ridden away on her
mission to direct matters at the Silver Spring.
“It’s queer,” thought the young master of the plantation, “how devotedly
loyal all the negroes are to Dorothy. Nobody--not even Williams the
overseer,--was ever so exacting as she is in requiring the most rigid
performance of duty. Ever since she punished Ben for bringing her an
imperfectly groomed horse, that chronically lazy fellow has taken the
trouble every night to put her mare’s mane and tail into some sort of
equine crimping apparatus, so that they may flow gracefully in the
morning. And he does it for affection, too, for when she told him, one
night, that he needn’t do it, as we were late in returning from
Pocahontas, I remember the fervor with which he responded: ‘Oh, yes,
Miss Dorothy, I’ll do de mar’ up in watered silk style tonight cause
yar’s a gwine to Branton fer a dinin’ day tomorrer, an’ Ben ain’t a
gwine fer to let his little Missus ride in anything but de bes’ o’
style.’ The fact is,” continued Arthur, reflecting, “these people
understand Dorothy. They know that she is always kindly, always
compassionate, always sympathetic in her dealings with them. But they
realize that she is also always just. She never grows angry. She never
scolds. She punishes a fault severely in her queer way, but after it is
punished she never refers to it again. She never ‘throws up things,’ to
them. In a word, Dorothy is just, and after all it is justice that
human beings most want, and it is the one thing of which they get least
in this world. What a girl Dorothy is, anyhow!”
XIII
THE “SONG BALLADS” OF DICK
_I_t was “endurin of de feveh”--to use his own phrase by which he meant
during the fever--that Dick’s genius revealed itself. Dick had long ago
achieved the coveted dignity of being his master’s “pussonal servant.”
It was Dorothy who appointed him to that position and it was mainly
Dorothy who directed his service and saw to it that he did not neglect
it.
For many of the services of a valet, Arthur had no use whatever. It was
his habit, as he had long ago said, to “tie his own shoe strings.” He
refused from the first very many of Dick’s proffered attentions. But he
liked to have his boots thoroughly polished and his clothing well
brushed. These things he allowed Dick to attend to. For the rest he made
small use of him except to send him on errands.
The position suited Dick’s temperament and ambition thoroughly and he
had no mind to let the outbreak of fever on the plantation rob him of
it. When Arthur established himself at the quarantine camp, taking for
his own a particularly small brush shelter, he presently found Dick in
attendance, and seriously endeavoring to make himself useful. For the
first time Arthur felt that the boy’s services were really of value to
him. He was intelligent, quick-witted, and unusually accurate in the
execution of orders. He could deliver a message precisely as it was
given to him, and his “creative imagination” was kept well in hand when
reporting to his master and when delivering his messages to
others--particularly to those in attendance upon the sick. Arthur was
busy night and day. He saw every patient frequently, and often he felt
it necessary to remain all night by a bedside. In the early morning,
before it was time for the field hands to go to their work in the crops,
he inspected them at their new quarters, and each day, too, he rode over
all the fields in which crop work was going on.
In all his goings Dick was beside him, except when sent elsewhere with
messages. In the camp he kept his master supplied with fuel and cooked
his simple meals for him, at whatever hours of the night or day the
master found time to give attention to his personal wants.
In the meanwhile--after the worst of the epidemic was over--Dick made
himself useful as an entertainer of the camp. Dick had developed
capacities as a poet, and after the manner of Homer and other great
masters of the poetic art, it was his custom to chant his verses to
rudely fashioned melodies of his own manufacture. Unfortunately Dorothy,
who took down Dick’s “Song Ballads,” as he called them, and preserved
their text in enduring form, was wholly ignorant of music, as we know,
and so the melodies of Dick are lost to us, as the melodies of Homer
are. But in the one case as in the other, some at least of the poems
remain to us.
Like all great poets, Dick was accustomed to find his inspiration in the
life about him. Thus the fever outbreak itself seems to have suggested
the following:
Nigga got de fevah,
Nigga he most daid;
Long come de Mahstah,
Mahstah shake he haid.
Mahstah he look sorry,
Nigga fit to cry;
Mahstah he say “Nebber min’,
Git well by am by.”
Mahstah po’ de medicine,
Mix it in de cup,
Nigga mos’ a chokin’
As he drinks it up.
Nigga he git well agin
Den he steal de chicken,
Den de Mahstah kotches him
An’ den he gits a lickin’.
The simplicity and directness of statement here employed fulfil the
first of the three requirements which John Milton declared to be
essential to poetry of a high order, which, he tells us must be “simple,
sensuous, passionate.” The necessary sensuousness is present also, in
the reference made to the repulsiveness of the medicine. But that
quality is better illustrated in another of Dick’s Song Ballads which
runs as follows:
Possum up a ’simmon tree--
Possum dunno nuffin,
He nebber know how sweet and good
A possum is wid stuffin.
Possum up a ’simmon tree--
A eatin’ of de blossom,
Up creeps de nigga an’
It’s “good-by Mistah Possum.”
Nigga at de table
A cuttin’ off a slice,
An’ sayin’ to de chillun--
“Possum’s mighty nice.”
Here the reader will observe the instinctive dramatic skill with which
the poet, having reached the climax of the situation, abruptly rings
down the curtain, as it were. There is no waste of words in unnecessary
explanations, no delaying of the action with needless comment. And at
the end of the second stanza we encounter a masterly touch. Instead of
telling us with prosaic literalness that the nigga succeeded in slaying
his game, the poet suggests the entire action with the figurative
phrase--“It’s ‘good-by, Mistah Possum.’”
There is a fine poetic reserve too in the abrupt shifting of the scene
from tree to table, and the presentation of the denouement without other
preparation than such as the reader’s imagination may easily furnish for
itself. We are not told that the possum was dressed and cooked; even the
presence of stuffing as an adjunct to the savor of the dish is left to
be inferred from the purely casual suggestion made in the first stanza
of the fact that stuffing tends to enrich as well as to adorn the viand.
These qualities and some others of a notable kind appear in the next
example we are permitted to give of this poet’s work.
Ole crow flyin’ roun’ de fiel’,
A lookin’ fer de cawn;
Mahstah wid he shot gun
A settin’ in de bawn.
Ole crow see a skeer crow
A standin’ in the cawn;
Nebber see de Mahstah
A settin’ in de bawn.
Ole crow say:--“De skeer crow,
He ain’t got no gun,--
Jes’ a lot o’ ole clo’es
A standin’ in de sun;
Ole crow needn’t min’ him,
Ole crow git some cawn;
But he nebber see de Mahstah
A settin’ in de bawn.
Ole crow wuk like nigga
A pullin’ up de cawn--
Mahstah pull de trigga,
Ober in de bawn.
Ole crow flop an’ flutter--
He’s done got it, _sho’!_
Skeer crow shakin’ in he sleeve
A laughin’ at de crow.
There is a compactness of statement here--a resolute elimination of the
superfluous which might well commend the piece to those modern
theatrical managers who seem to regard dialogue as an impertinence in a
play.
Sometimes the poet went even further and presented only the barest
suggestion of the thought in his mind, leaving the reader to supply the
rest. Such is the case in the poem next to be set down as an example,
illustrative of the poet’s method. It consists of but a single stanza:
De day’s done gone, de wuk’s done done,
An’ Mahstah he smoke he pipe;
But nigga he ain’t done jes yit,
Cause--de watermillion’s ripe.
Here we have in four brief lines an entirely adequate suggestion of the
predatory habits of “Nigga,” and of his attitude of mind toward
“watermillions.” With the bare statement of the fact that the fruit in
question has attained its succulent maturity, we are left to discover
for ourselves the causal relation between that fact and the intimated
purpose of “Nigga” to continue his activities during the hours of
darkness. The exceeding subtlety of all this cannot fail to awaken the
reader’s admiring sympathy.
Perhaps the most elaborately wrought out of these song ballads is the
one which has been reserved for the last. Its text here follows:
Possum’s good an’ hoe cake’s fine,
An’ so is mammy’s pies,
But bes’ of all good t’ings to eat
Is chickens, fryin’ size.
How I lubs a moonlight night
When stars is in de skies!
But sich nights ain’t no good to git
De chickens, fryin’ size.
De moonlight night is shiny bright,
Jes’ like a nigga’s eyes,
But dark nights is the bes’ to git
De chickens, fryin’ size.
When Mahstah he is gone to sleep,
An’ black clouds hides de skies,
Oh, den’s de time to crawl an’ creep
Fer chickens, fryin’ size.
Fer den prehaps you won’t git kotched
Nor hab to tell no lies,
An’ mebbe you’ll git safe away
Wid chickens, fryin’ size.
But you mus’ look out sharp fer noise
An’ hush de chicken’s cries,
Fer mighty wakin’ is de squawks
Of chickens, fryin’ size.
To gross minds this abrupt, admonitory ending of the poem will be
disappointing. It leaves the reader wishing for more--more chicken, if
not more poetry. And yet in this self-restrained ending of the piece the
poet is fully justified by the practice of other great masters of the
poetic art. Who that has read Coleridge’s superb fragment “Kubla Khan,”
does not long to know more of the “stately pleasure dome” and of those
“caverns measureless to man” through which “Alph the sacred river ran,
down to a sunless sea”?
We present these illustrative examples of Dick’s verse in full
confidence that both his inspiration and his methods will make their own
appeal to discriminating minds. If there be objection made to the
somewhat irregular word forms employed by this poet, the ready answer is
that the same characteristic marks many of the writings of Robert Burns,
and that Homer himself employed a dialect. If it is suggested that
Dick’s verbs are sometimes out of agreement with their nominatives, it
is easy to imagine Dick contemptuously replying, “Who keers ’bout dat?”
XIV
DOROTHY’S AFFAIRS
_A_ good many things happened “endurin’ of the feveh”--if Dick’s
expressive and by no means inapt phrase may again be employed.
First of all the outbreak gave Madison Peyton what he deemed his
opportunity. It seemed to him to furnish occasion for that
reconciliation with Aunt Polly which he saw to be necessary to his
plans, and, still more important, it seemed to afford an opportunity for
him to withdraw Dorothy from the influence of Dr. Arthur Brent.
Accordingly, as soon as news came to him of the epidemic, and of Arthur
Brent’s heroic measures in meeting it, he hurried over to Wyanoke, full
of confident plans.
“This is dreadful news, Cousin Polly,” he said, as soon as he had
bustled into the house.
“What news, Madison?” answered the old lady. “What have you come to tell
me?”
“Oh I mean this dreadful fever outbreak--it is terrible--”
“I don’t know,” answered Aunt Polly, reflectively. “We have had only ten
or a dozen cases so far, and you had three or four times that many at
your quarters last year.”
“Oh, yes, but of course this is very much worse. You see Arthur has had
to burn down all the quarters, and destroy all the clothing. He’s a
scientific physician, you know, and--”
“But all science is atheistic, Madison. You told me so yourself over at
Osmore, and so of course you don’t pay any attention to Arthur’s
scientific freaks.”
“Now you know I didn’t mean that, Cousin Polly,” answered Peyton,
apologetically. “Of course Arthur knows all about fevers. You know how
he distinguished himself at Norfolk.”
“Yes, I know, but what has that to do with this case?”
“Why, if this fever is so bad that a scientific physician like Arthur
finds it necessary to burn all his negro quarters and build new ones, it
must be very much worse than anything ever known in this county before.
Nobody here ever thought of such extreme measures.”
“No, I suppose not,” answered Aunt Polly. “At any rate you didn’t do
anything of the kind when an epidemic broke out in your quarters last
year. But you had fourteen deaths and thus far we have had only one, and
Arthur tells me he hopes to have no more. Perhaps if you had been a
scientific physician, you too would have burned your quarters and moved
your hands to healthier ones.”
This was a home shot, as Aunt Polly very well knew. For the physicians
who had attended Peyton’s people, had earnestly recommended the
destruction of his negro quarters and the removal of his people to a
more healthful locality, and he had stoutly refused to incur the
expense. He had ever since excused himself by jeering at the doctors and
pointing, in justification of his neglect of their advice to the fact
that in due time the epidemic on his plantation had subsided. He
therefore felt the sting of Aunt Polly’s reference to his experience,
and she emphasized it by adding:
“If you had done as Arthur has, perhaps you wouldn’t have so many deaths
to answer for when Judgment Day comes!”
“Oh, that’s all nonsense, Cousin Polly,” he quickly responded. “And
besides we’re wasting time. Of course you and Dorothy can’t remain here,
exposed to this dreadful danger. So I’ve ordered my driver to bring the
carriage over here for you this afternoon. You two must be our guests at
least as long as the fever lasts at Wyanoke.”
Aunt Polly looked long and intently at Peyton. Then she slowly said:
“The Bible forbids it, Madison, though I never could see why.”
“Forbids what, Cousin Polly?”
“Why, it says we mustn’t call anybody a fool even when he is so, and I
never could understand why.”
“But I don’t understand you, Cousin Polly--”
“Of course you don’t. I didn’t imagine that you would. But that’s
because you don’t want to.”
“But I protest, Cousin Polly, that I’ve come over only because I’m
deeply anxious about your health and Dorothy’s. You simply mustn’t
remain here.”
“Madison Peyton,” answered the old lady, rising in her stately majesty
of indignation, “I won’t call you a fool because the Bible says I
mustn’t. But it is plain that you think me one. You know very well that
you’re not in the least concerned about my health. You know there hasn’t
been a single case of fever in this house
[Illustration: “_I WON’T CALL YOU A FOOL BECAUSE THE BIBLE SAYS I
MUSTN’T._”]
or within a mile of it. You know you never thought of removing your own
family from your house when the fever was raging in your negro quarters.
You know that I know what you want. You want to get Dorothy under your
own control, by taking her to your house. Very well, I tell you you
cannot do that. It would endanger the health of your own family, for
Dorothy has been in our fever camp for two days and nights now, as head
nurse and Arthur’s executive officer. Why do you come here trying to
deceive me as if I were that kind of person that the Bible doesn’t allow
me to call you? Isn’t it hard enough for me to do my duty in Dorothy’s
case without that? Do you imagine I find it a pleasant thing to carry
out my orders and train that splendid girl to be the obedient wife of
such a booby as your son is? You are making a mistake. You tried once to
intimidate me. You know precisely how far you succeeded. You are trying
now to deceive me. You may guess for yourself what measure of success
you are achieving. There are spirits in the sideboard, if you want
something to drink after ---- well, after your ride. I must ask you to
excuse me now, as I have to go to the prize barn to superintend the work
of the sewing women.”
With that the irate old lady courtesied low, in mock respect, and took
her departure, escorted by her maid.
Madison Peyton was angry, of course. That, indeed is a feeble and
utterly inadequate term with which to describe his state of mind. He
felt himself insulted beyond endurance--and that, probably, was what
Aunt Polly intended that he should feel. But he was baffled in his
purpose also, and he knew not how to endure that. He was not a coward.
Had Aunt Polly been a man he would instantly have called her to account
for her words. Had she been a young woman, he would have challenged her
brother or other nearest male relative. As it was he had only the poor
privilege of meditating such vengeance as he might wreak in sly and
indirect ways. He was moved to many things, as he madly galloped away,
but one after another each suggested scheme of vengeance was abandoned
as manifestly foolish, and with the abandonment of each his chagrin grew
greater and his anger increased. When he met his carriage on its way to
Wyanoke in obedience to the orders he had given in the morning, he
became positively frantic with rage, so that the driver and the black
boy who rode behind the vehicle grew ashen with terror as the carriage
was turned about in its course, and took up its homeward way.
A few weeks later the court met, and a message was sent to Aunt Polly
directing her to bring Dorothy before the judge for the purpose of
having her choose a guardian. When Dorothy was notified of this she sent
Dick with a note to Col. Majors, the lawyer. It was not such a note as a
young woman more accustomed than she to the forms of life and law would
have written. It ran as follows:
“DEAR COL. MAJORS:--Please tell the judge I can’t come. Poor Sally
is very, very ill and I mustn’t leave her for a moment. The others
need me too, and I’ve got a lot of work to do putting up
prescriptions--for I’m the druggist, you know. So tell the judge he
must wait till he comes to this county next time. Give my love to
Mrs. Majors and dear Patty.
“Sincerely yours,
“DOROTHY SOUTH.”
On receipt of this rather astonishing missive, Colonel Majors smiled and
in his deliberate way ordered his horse to be brought to him after
dinner. Riding over to Wyanoke he “interviewed” Dorothy at the fever
camp.
He explained to the wilful young lady the mandatory character of a court
order, particularly in the case of a ward in chancery.
“But why can’t you do the business for me?” she asked. “I tell you Sally
is too ill for me to leave her.”
“But you must, my dear. In any ordinary matter I, as your counsel, could
act for you, but in this case the court must have you present in person,
because you are to make choice of a guardian and the court must be
satisfied that you have made the choice for yourself and that nobody
else has made it for you. So you simply must go. If you don’t the court
will send the sheriff for you, and then it will punish Miss Polly
dreadfully for not bringing you.”
This last appeal conquered Dorothy’s resistance. If only herself had
been concerned she would still have insisted upon having her own way.
But the suggestion that such a course might bring dire and dreadful “law
things,” as she phrased it, upon Aunt Polly appalled her, and she
consented.
“How long shall I have to leave poor Sally?” she asked.
“Only an hour or two. You and Miss Polly can leave here in your carriage
about ten o’clock and as soon as you get to the Court House I’ll ask
the judge to suspend other business and bring your matter on. He will
ask you whom you choose for your guardian, and you will answer ‘Madison
Peyton.’ Then the judge will ask you if you have made your choice
without compulsion or influence on the part of anybody else, and you
will answer ‘yes.’ Then he will politely bid you good morning, and you
can drive back to Wyanoke at once.”
“Is that exactly how the thing is done?” she asked, with a peculiar look
upon her face.
“Exactly. You see it will give you no trouble.”
“Oh, no! I don’t mind anything except leaving Sally. Tell the judge I’ll
come.”
Col. Majors smiled at this message, but made no answer, except to say:
“I’ll be there of course, and you can sit by me and speak to me if you
wish to ask any question.”
The lawyer made his adieux and rode away. Dorothy, with a peculiar smile
upon her lips returned to her patients.
XV
DOROTHY’S CHOICE
_T_he judge himself was not so stately or so imposing of presence as was
Aunt Polly, when she and Dorothy entered the court, escorted by Col.
Majors. Dorothy was entirely self possessed, as it was her custom to be
under all circumstances. “When people feel embarrassed,” she once said,
“it must be because they know something about themselves that they are
afraid other people will find out.” As Dorothy knew nothing of that kind
about herself, she had no foolish trepidation, even in the solemn
presence of a court.
The judge ordered her case called, and speaking very gently explained to
her what was wanted.
“You are a young girl under the age at which the law supposes you to be
capable of managing your own affairs. The law makes it the duty of this
Court to guard you and your estate against every danger. By his will
your father wisely placed your person in charge of an eminently fit and
proper lady, whose character and virtues this Court and the entire
community in which we live, hold in the highest esteem and honour.” At
this point the judge profoundly bowed to Aunt Polly, and she
acknowledged the courtesy with stately grace. The judge then continued: