Part 4

“That’s right, Ike. I can depend upon you. You’re always faithful. Just you get things done up right for me, and I’ll give you that broadcloth suit of mine. It’s most as good as new.”

“Thanky, Mas’ Bob, thanky.” The old Negro said it as fervently as if he had not worn out that old broadcloth a dozen years ago.

“It’s late and we’ve got to hurry if we want things prepared in time. Tell Lize that I want her to let herself out on that dinner. Your Mas’ Bob and your Mas’ Stanton are going to be home to-morrow, and I want to show them that their father’s house hasn’t lost any of the qualities that have made it famous in Virginia for a hundred years. Ike, there ain’t anything in this world for making men out of boys like making them feel the debt they owe to their name and family.”

“Yes, suh, Mas’ Bob an’ Mas’ Stant sholy is mighty fine men.”

“There ain’t two finer in the whole country, sir,—no, sir, not in all Virginia, and that of necessity means the whole country. Now, Ike, I want you to get out some of that wine up in the second cellar, and when I say some I mean plenty. It ain’t seen the light for years, but it shall gurgle into the glasses to-morrow in honour of my sons’ home-coming. Good wine makes good blood, and who should drink good wine if not an Estridge of Virginia, sir, eh, Ike?”

The wine had gone to make good cheer when a Federal regiment had lighted its campfires on the Estridge lawn, but old Ike had heard it too often before and knew his business too well to give any sign.

“I want you to take some things up to Miss Clarinda Randolph to-morrow, too, and I’ve got a silver snuffbox for Thomas Daniels. I can’t make many presents this year. I’ve got to devote my money to the interest of your young masters.”

There was a catch in the Negro’s voice as he replied, “Yes, Mas’ Estridge, dey needs it mos’, dey needs it mos’.”

The old colonel’s spell of talking seldom lasted long, and now he fell to eating in silence; but his face was the face of one in a dream. Ike waited on him until he had done, and then, clearing the things away, slipped out, leaving him to sit and muse in his chair by the window.

“Look hyeah, Lize,” said the old servant, as he entered his wife’s cabin a little later. “Pleggoned ef I didn’t come purt’ nigh brekin’ down dis mo’nin’.”

“Wha’ ’s de mattah wif you, Ike?”

“Jes’ a-listenin’ to ol’ Mas’ a-sittin’ dah a-talkin’ lak it was de ol’ times,—a-sendin’ messages to ol’ Miss Randolph, dat’s been daid too long to talk about, an’ to Mas’ Tom Daniels, dat went acrost de wateh ruther ’n tek de oaf o’ ’legiance.”

“Oomph,” said the old lady, wiping her eyes on her cotton apron.

“Den he expectin’ Mas’ Bob an’ Mas’ Stant home to-morrer. ’Clah to goodness, when he say dat I lak to hollahed right out.”

“Den you would ’a’ fixed it, wouldn’t you? Set down an’ eat yo’ breakfus’, Ike, an’ don’t you nevah let on when Mas’ Estridge talkin’, you jes’ go ’long ’bout yo’ wuk an’ keep yo’ mouf shet, ’ca’se ef evah he wake up now he gwine to die right straight off.”

“Lawd he’p him not to wake up den, ’ca’se he ol’, but we needs him. I do’ know whut I’d do ef I didn’t have Mas’ Bob to wuk fu’. You got ol’ Miss Randolph’s present ready fu’ him?”

“Co’se I has. I done made him somep’n’ diffunt dis yeah.”

“Made him somep’n’ diffunt—whut you say, Lize?” exclaimed the old man, laying his knife and fork on his plate and looking up at his wife with wide-open eyes. “You ain’t gwine change afteh all dese yeahs?”

“Yes. I jes’ pintly had to. It’s been de same thing now fu’ mo’ ’n twenty yeahs.”

“Whut you done made fu’ him?”

“I’s made him a comfo’t to go roun’ his naik.”

“But, Lize, ol’ Miss Cla’indy allus sont him gloves knit wif huh own han’. Ain’t you feared Mas’ Estridge gwine to ’spect?”

“No, he ain’t gwine to ’spect. He don’t tek no notice o’ nuffin’, an’ he jes’ pintly had to have dat comfo’t fu’ his naik, ’ca’se he boun’ to go out in de col’ sometime er ruther an’ he got plenty gloves.”

“I’s feared,” said the old man, sententiously, “I’s mighty feared. I wouldn’t have Mastah know we been doin’ fu’ him an’ a-sendin’ him dese presents all dis time fu’ nuffin’ in de worl’. It ’u’d hu’t him mighty bad.”

“He ain’t foun’ out all dese yeahs, an’ he ain’t gwine fin’ out now.” The old man shook his head dubiously, and ate the rest of his meal in silence.

It was a beautiful Christmas morning as he wended his way across the lawn to his old master’s room, bearing the tray of breakfast things and “ol’ Miss Randolph’s present,”—a heavy home-made scarf. The air was full of frosty brightness. Ike was happy, for the frost had turned the persimmons. The ’possums had gorged themselves, and he had one of the fattest of them for his Christmas dinner. Colonel Estridge was sitting in his old place by the window. He crumbled an old yellow envelope in his hand as Ike came in and set the things down. It looked like the letter which had brought the news of young Robert Estridge’s loss, but it could not be, for the old man sitting there had forgotten that and was expecting the son home on that day.

Ike took the comforter to his master, and began in the old way: “Miss Cla’iny Randolph mek huh comperments to you, Mas’ Bob, an’ say—” But his master had turned and was looking him square in the face, and something in the look checked his flow of words. Colonel Estridge did not extend his hand to take the gift. “Clarinda Randolph,” he said, “always sends me gloves.” His tone was not angry, but it was cold and sorrowful. “Lay it down,” he went on more kindly and pointing to the comforter, “and you may go now. I will get whatever I want from the table.” Ike did not dare to demur. He slipped away, embarrassed and distressed.

“Wha’ ’d I tell you?” he asked Lize, as soon as he reached the cabin. “I believe he done woke up.” But the old woman could only mourn and wring her hands.

“Well, nevah min’,” said Ike, after his first moment of sad triumph was over. “I guess it wasn’t the comfo’t nohow, ’ca’se I seed him wif a letteh when I went in, but I didn’t ’spicion nuffin’ tell he look at me an’ talk jes’ ez sensible ez me er you.”

It was not until dinner-time that Ike found courage to go back to his master’s room, and then he did not find him sitting in his accustomed place, nor was he on the porch or in the hall.

Growing alarmed, the old servant searched high and low for him, until he came to the door of a long-disused room. A bundle of keys hung from the keyhole.

“Hyeah’s whah he got dat letteh,” said Ike. “I reckon he come to put it back.” But even as he spoke, his eyes bulged with apprehension. He opened the door farther, and went in. And there at last his search was ended. Colonel Estridge was on his knees before an old oak chest. On the floor about him were scattered pair on pair of home-knit gloves. He was very still. His head had fallen forward on the edge of the chest. Ike went up to him and touched his shoulder. There was no motion in response. The black man lifted his master’s head. The face was pale and cold and lifeless. In the stiffening hand was clenched a pair of gloves,—the last Miss Randolph had ever really knit for him. The servant lifted up the lifeless form, and laid it upon the bed. When Lize came she would have wept and made loud lamentations, but Ike checked her. “Keep still,” he said. “Pray if you want to, but don’t hollah. We ought to be proud, Lize.” His shoulders were thrown back and his head was up. “Mas’ Bob’s in glory. Dis is Virginia’s Christmas gif’ to Gawd!”

THE TRIAL SERMONS ON BULL-SKIN

THE TRIAL SERMONS ON BULL-SKIN

The congregation on Bull-Skin Creek was without a pastor. You will probably say that this was a deficiency easily remedied among a people who possess so much theological material. But you will instantly perceive how different a matter it was, when you learn that the last shepherd who had guided the flock at Bull-skin had left that community under a cloud. There were, of course, those who held with the departed minister, as well as those who were against him; and so two parties arose in the church, each contending for supremacy. Each party refused to endorse any measure or support any candidate suggested by the other; and as neither was strong enough to run the church alone, they were in a state of inactive equipoise very gratifying to that individual who is supposed to take delight in the discomfort of the righteous.

It was in this complicated state of affairs that Brother Hezekiah Sneedon, who was the representative of one of the candidates for the vacant pastorate, conceived and proposed a way out of the difficulty. Brother Sneedon’s proposition was favourably acted upon by the whole congregation, because it held out the promise of victory to each party. It was, in effect, as follows:

Each faction—it had come to be openly recognised that there were two factions—should name its candidate, and then they should be invited to preach, on successive Sundays, trial sermons before the whole congregation, the preacher making the better impression to be called as pastor.

“And,” added Brother Sneedon, pacifically, “in ordah dat dis little diffunce between de membahs may be settled in ha’mony, I do hope an’ pray dat de pahty dat fin’s itse’f outpreached will give up to de othah in Christun submission, an’ th’ow in all deir might to hol’ up de han’s of whatever pastor de Lawd may please to sen’.”

Sister Hannah Williams, the leader of the opposing faction, expressed herself as well pleased with the plan, and counselled a like submission to the will of the majority. And thus the difficulty at Bull-skin seemed in a fair way to settlement. But could any one have read that lady’s thoughts as she wended her homeward way after the meeting, he would have had some misgivings concerning the success of the proposition which she so willingly endorsed. For she was saying to herself,—

“Uh huh! ol’ Kiah Sneedon thinks he’s mighty sma’t, puttin’ up dat plan. Reckon he thinks ol’ Abe Ma’tin kin outpreach anything near an’ fur, but ef Brothah ’Lias Smith don’t fool him, I ain’t talkin’.”

And Brother Sneedon himself was not entirely guiltless of some selfish thought as he hobbled away from the church door.

“Ann,” said he to his wife, “I wunner ef Hannah Williams ca’culates dat ’Lias Smith kin beat Brother Abe Ma’tin preachin’, ki yi! but won’t she be riley when she fin’s out how mistaken she is? Why, dey ain’t nobody ’twixt hyeah an’ Louisville kin beat Brothah Abe Ma’tin preachin’. I’s hyeahed dat man preach ’twell de winders rattled an’ it seemed lak de skies mus’ come down anyhow, an’ sinnahs was a-fallin’ befo’ de Wo’d lak leaves in a Novembah blas’; an’ she ’lows to beat him, oomph!” The “oomph” meant disgust, incredulity, and, above all, resistance.

The first of the momentous Sundays had been postponed two weeks, in order, it was said, to allow the members to get the spiritual and temporal elements of the church into order that would be pleasing to the eyes of a new pastor. In reality, Brother Sneedon and Sister Williams used the interval of time to lay their plans and to marshal their forces. And during the two weeks previous to the Sunday on which, by common consent, it had been agreed to invite the Reverend Elias Smith to preach, there was an ominous quiet on the banks of Bull-Skin,—the calm that precedes a great upheaval, when clouds hang heavy with portents and forebodings, but silent withal.

But there were events taking place in which the student of diplomacy might have found food for research and reflection. Such an event was the taffy-pulling which Sister Williams’ daughters, Dora and Caroline, gave to the younger members of the congregation on Thursday evening. Such were the frequent incursions of Sister Williams herself upon the domains of the neighbours, with generous offerings of “a taste o’ my ketchup” or “a sample o’ my jelly.” She did not stop with rewarding her own allies, but went farther, gift-bearing, even into the camp of the enemy himself.

It was on Friday morning that she called on Sister Sneedon. She found the door ajar and pushed it open, saying, “You see, Sis’ Sneedon, I’s jes’ walkin’ right in.”

“Oh, it’s you, Sis’ Williams; dat’s right, come in. I was jes’ settin’ hyeah sawtin’ my cyahpet rags, de mof do seem to pestah ’em so. Tek dis cheer”—industriously dusting one with her apron. “How you be’n sence I seen you las’?”

“Oh, jes’ sawt o’ so.”

“How’s Do’ an’ Ca’line?”

“Oh, Ca’line’s peart enough, but Do’s feelin’ kind o’ peekid.”

“Don’t you reckon she grow too fas’?”

“’Spec’ dat’s about hit; dat gal do sutny seem to run up lak a weed.”

“It don’t nevah do ’em no good to grow so fas’, hit seem to tek away all deir strengf.”

“Yes, ’m, it sholy do; gals ain’t whut dey used to be in yo’ an’ my day, nohow.”

“Lawd, no; dey’s ez puny ez white folks now.”

“Well, dem sholy is lovely cyahpet rags—put’ nigh all wool, ain’t dey?”

“Yes, ma’am, dey is wool, evah speck an’ stitch; dey ain’t a bit o’ cotton among ’em. I ain’t lak some folks; I don’t b’lieve in mixin’ my rags evah-which-way. Den when you gits ’em wove have de cyahpet wah in holes, ’cause some’ll stan’ a good deal o’ strain an’ some won’t; yes, ’m, dese is evah one wool.”

“An’ you sholy have be’n mighty indust’ous in gittin’ ’em togethah.”

“I’s wo’ked ha’d an’ done my level bes’, dat’s sho.”

“Dat’s de mos’ any of us kin do. But I mustn’t be settin’ hyeah talkin’ all day an’ keepin’ you f’om yo’ wo’k. Why, la! I’d mos’ nigh fu’got what I come fu’—I jes’ brung you ovah a tas’e o’ my late greens. I knows how you laks greens, so I thought mebbe you’d enjoy dese.”

“Why, sho enough; now ain’t dat good o’ you, Sis’ Williams? Dey’s right wa’m, too, an’ tu’nip tops—bless me! Why, dese mus’ be de ve’y las’ greens o’ de season.”

“Well, I reely don’t think you’ll fin’ none much latah. De fros’ had done teched dese, but I kin’ o’ kivered ’em up wif leaves ontwell dey growed up wuf cuttin’.”

“Well, I knows I sholy shell relish dem.” Mrs. Sneedon beamed as she emptied the dish and insisted upon washing it for her visitor to take home with her. “Fu’,” she said, by way of humour, “I’s a mighty po’ han’ to retu’n nice dishes when I gits ’em in my cu’boa’d once.”

Sister Williams rose to go. “Well, you’ll be out to chu’ch Sunday to hyeah Broth’ ’Lias Smith; he’s a powahful man, sho.”

“Dey do tell me so. I’ll be thah. You kin ’pend on me to be out whenevah thah’s to be any good preachin’.”

“Well, we kin have dat kin’ o’ preachin’ all de time ef we gits Broth’ ’Lias Smith.”

“Yes, ’m.”

“Dey ain’t no ’sputin’ he’ll be a movin’ powah at Bull-Skin.”

“Yes, ’m.”

“We sistahs’ll have to ban’ togethah an’ try to do whut is bes’ fu’ de chu’ch.”

“Yes, ’m.”

“Co’se, Sistah Sneedon, ef you’s pleased wif his sermon, I suppose you’ll be in favoh o’ callin’ Broth’ ’Lias Smith.”

“Well, Sis’ Williams, I do’ know; you see Hezekier’s got his hea’t sot on Broth’ Abe Ma’tin fum Dokesville; he’s mighty sot on him, an’ when he’s sot he’s sot, an’ you know how it is wif us women when de men folks says dis er dat.”

Sister Williams saw that she had overshot her mark. “Oh, hit’s all right, Sis’ Sneedon, hit’s all right. I jes’ spoke of it a-wunnerin’. What we women folks wants to do is to ban’ togethah to hol’ up de han’ of de pastah dat comes, whoms’ever he may be.”

“Dat’s hit, dat’s hit,” assented her companion; “an’ you kin ’pend on me thah, fu’ I’s a powahful han’ to uphol’ de ministah whoms’ever he is.”

“An’ you right too, fu’ dey’s de shepuds of de flock. Well, I mus’ be goin’—come ovah.”

“I’s a-comin’—come ag’in yo’se’f, good-bye.”

As soon as her visitor was gone, Sister Sneedon warmed over the greens and sat down to the enjoyment of them. She had just finished the last mouthful when her better half entered. He saw the empty plate and the green liquor. Evidently he was not pleased, for be it said that Brother Sneedon had himself a great tenderness for turnip greens.

“Wha’d you git dem greens?” he asked.

“Sistah Hannah Williams brung ’em ovah to me.”

“Sistah Hannah—who?” ejaculated he.

“Sis’ Williams, Sis’ Williams, you know Hannah Williams.”

“What! dat wolf in sheep’s clothin’ dat’s a-gwine erroun’ a-seekin’ who she may devowah, an’ you hyeah a-projickin’ wif huh, eatin’ de greens she gives you! How you know whut’s in dem greens?”

“Oh, g’long, ’Kiah, you so funny! Sis’ Williams ain’t gwine conju’ nobidy.”

“You hyeah me, you hyeah me now. Keep on foolin’ wif dat ooman, she’ll have you crawlin’ on yo’ knees an’ ba’kin, lak a dog. She kin do it, she kin do it, fu’ she’s long-haided, I tell you.”

“Well, ef she wants to hu’t me it’s done, fu’ I’s eat de greens now.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Brother Sneedon, “you eat ’em up lak a hongry hog an’ never saved me a smudgeon.”

“Oomph! I thought you’s so afeard o’ gittin’ conju’ed.”

“Heish up! you’s allus tryin’ to raise some kin’ er contentions in de fambly. I nevah seed a ooman lak you.” And old Hezekiah strode out of the cabin in high dudgeon.

And so, smooth on the surface, but turbulent beneath, the stream of days flowed on until the Sunday on which Reverend Elias Smith was to preach his trial sermon. His fame as a preacher, together with the circumstances surrounding this particular sermon, had brought together such a crowd as the little church on Bull-Skin had never seen before even in the heat of the most successful revivals. Outsiders had come from as far away as Christiansburg, which was twelve, and Fox Run, which was fifteen miles distant, and the church was crowded to the doors.

Sister Williams with her daughters Dora and Caroline were early in their seats. Their ribbons were fluttering to the breeze like the banners of an aggressive host. There were smiles of anticipated triumph upon their faces. Brother and Sister Sneedon arrived a little later. They took their seat far up in the “amen corner,” directly behind the Williams family. Sister Sneedon sat very erect and looked about her, but her spouse leaned his chin upon his cane and gazed at the floor, nor did he raise his head, when, preceded by a buzz of expectancy, the Reverend Elias Smith, accompanied by Brother Abner Williams, who was a local preacher, entered and ascended to the pulpit, where he knelt in silent prayer.

At the entrance of their candidate, the female portion of the Williams family became instantly alert.

They were all attention when the husband and father arose and gave out the hymn: “Am I a Soldier of the Cross?” They joined lustily in the singing, and at the lines, “Sure I must fight if I would reign,” their voices rose in a victorious swell far above the voices of the rest of the congregation. Prayer followed, and then Brother Williams rose and said,—

“Brothahs an’ sistahs, I teks gret pleasuah in interducin’ to you Eldah Smith, of Dokeville, who will preach fu’ us at dis howah. I want to speak fu’ him yo’ pra’ful attention.” Sister Williams nodded her head in approval, even this much was good; but Brother Sneedon sighed aloud.

The Reverend Elias Smith arose and glanced over the congregation. He was young, well-appearing, and looked as though he might have been unmarried. He announced his text in a clear, resonant voice: “By deir fruits shell you know dem.”

The great change that gave to the blacks fairly trained ministers from the schools had not at this time succeeded their recently accomplished emancipation. And the sermon of Elder Smith was full of all the fervour, common-sense, and rude eloquence of the old plantation exhorter. He spoke to his hearers in the language that they understood, because he himself knew no other. He drew his symbols and illustrations from the things which he saw most commonly about him,—things which he and his congregation understood equally well. He spent no time in dallying about the edge of his subject, but plunged immediately into the middle of things, and soon had about him a shouting, hallooing throng of frantic people. Of course it was the Williams faction who shouted. The spiritual impulse did not seem to reach those who favoured Brother Sneedon’s candidate. They sat silent and undemonstrative. That earnest disciple himself still sat with his head bent upon his cane, and still at intervals sighed audibly. He had only raised his head once, and that was when some especially powerful period in the sermon had drawn from the partner of his joys and sorrows an appreciative “Oomph!” Then the look that he shot forth from his eyes, so full of injury, reproach, and menace, repressed her noble rage and settled her back into a quietude more consonant with her husband’s ideas.

Meanwhile, Sister Hannah Williams and her sylph-like daughters “Do” and “Ca’line” were in an excess of religious frenzy. Whenever any of the other women in the congregation seemed to be working their way too far forward, those enthusiastic sisters shouted their way directly across the approach to the pulpit, and held place there with such impressive and menacing demonstrativeness that all comers were warned back. There had been times when, actuated by great religious fervour, women had ascended the rostrum and embraced the minister. Rest assured, nothing of that kind happened in this case, though the preacher waxed more and more eloquent as he proceeded,—an eloquence more of tone, look, and gesture than of words. He played upon the emotions of his willing hearers, except those who had steeled themselves against his power, as a skilful musician upon the strings of his harp. At one time they were boisterously exultant, at another they were weeping and moaning, as if in the realisation of many sins. The minister himself lowered his voice to a soft rhythmical moan, almost a chant, as he said,—

“You go ’long by de road an’ you see an ol’ shabby tree a-standin’ in de o’chud. It ain’t ha’dly got a apple on it. Its leaves are put’ nigh all gone. You look at de branches, dey’s all rough an’ crookid. De tree’s all full of sticks an’ stones an’ wiah an’ ole tin cans. Hit’s all bruised up an’ hit’s a ha’d thing to look at altogether. You look at de tree an’ whut do you say in yo’ hea’t? You say de tree ain’t no ’count, fu’ ‘by deir fruits shell you know dem.’ But you wrong, my frien’s, you wrong. Dat tree did ba’ good fruit, an’ by hits fruit was hit knowed. John tol’ Gawge an’ Gawge tol’ Sam, an’ evah one dat passed erlong de road had to have a shy at dat fruit. Dey be’n th’owin’ at dat tree evah sence hit begun to ba’ fruit, an’ dey’s ’bused hit so dat hit couldn’t grow straight to save hits life. Is dat whut’s de mattah wif you, brothah, all bent ovah yo’ staff an’ a-groanin’ wif yo’ burdens? Is dat whut’s de mattah wif you, brothah, dat yo’ steps are a-weary an’ you’s longin’ fu’ yo’ home? Have dey be’n th’owin’ stones an’ cans at you? Have dey be’n beatin’ you wif sticks? Have dey tangled you up in ol’ wiah twell you couldn’t move han’ ner foot? Have de way be’n all trouble? Have de sky be’n all cloud? Have de sun refused to shine an’ de day be’n all da’kness? Don’t git werry, be consoled. Whut de mattah! Why, I tell you you ba’in’ good fruit, an’ de debbil cain’t stan’ it—‘By deir fruits shell you know dem.’

“You go ’long de road a little furder an’ you see a tree standin’ right by de fence. Standin’ right straight up in de air, evah limb straight out in hits place, all de leaves green an’ shinin’ an’ lovely. Not a stick ner a stone ner a can in sight. You look ’way up in de branches, an’ dey hangin’ full o’ fruit, big an’ roun’ an’ solid. You look at dis tree an’ whut now do you say in yo’ hea’t? You say dis is a good tree, fu’ ‘by deir fruits shell you know dem.’ But you wrong, you wrong ag’in, my frien’s. De apples on dat tree are so sowah dat dey’d puckah up yo’ mouf wuss ’n a green pu’simmon, an’ evahbidy knows hit, by hits fruit is hit knowed. Dey don’t want none o’ dat fruit, an’ dey pass hit by an’ don’t bothah dey haids about it.