Part 4

“Wellum, wid dat he wuz gone, an’ de fus’ news Miss Sadie know’d de papers wuz full er de names er dem what got drownded in de boat, an’ Marse Jesse head de roll, ’kaze he wuz de mos’ pop’lous music-maker in de whole settlement. Den dar wuz de gal an’ de letter. I wish I could tell dis part like she tol’ me settin’ dar in my house. You’ll never git it straight in yo’ head less’n you’d ’a’ been dar an’ hear de way she tol’ it. Nigger ez I is, I know mighty well dat a white ’oman ain’t got no business parmin’ ’erse’f off ez a man’s wife. But de way she tol’ it tuck all de rough aidges off’n it. She wuz dar in dat big town, wuss’n a wilderness, ez you may say, by ’erse’f, nobody ’penin’ on ’er an’ nobody ter ’pen’ on, tired down an’ plum wo’ out, an’ wid all dem kinder longin’s what you know yo’se’f, ma’am, all wimmen bleeze ter have, ef dey er white er ef dey er black.

“Yit she ain’t never tol’ nobody dat she wuz Marse Jesse’s wife. She des han’ de letter what she’d kep’ ter Miss Fanny, an’ fell down on de flo’ in a dead faint, an’ she say dat ef it hadn’t but ’a’ been fer me, she’d a got out er de bed dat fust night an’ went ’way fum dar; an’ I know dat’s so, too, bekaze she wuz ranklin’ fer ter git up fum dar. But at de time I put all dat down ter de credit er de deleeriums, an’ made ’er stay in bed.

“Wellum, ef I know’d all de books in de worl’ by heart, I couldn’t tell you how I felt atter she done tol’ me dat tale. She sot back dar des ez calm ez a baby. Bimeby she say, ‘I’m glad I tol’ you; I feel better dan I felt in a mighty long time.’ It look like, ma’am, dat a load done been lift fum ’er min’. Now I know’d pine blank dat sump’n gotter be done, ’kaze de train’d be in at midnight, an’ den when Marse Jesse come dey’d be a tarrifyin’ time at Gabe Towers’s. Atter while I up an’ ax ’er, ‘Miss Sadie, did you reely love Marse Jesse?’ She say, ‘Yes, I did’—des so. I ax ’er, ‘Does you love ’im now?’ She say, ‘Yes, I does—an’ I love dem ar people up dar at de house; dat de reason I’m gwine ’way.’ She talk right out; she done come to de p’int whar she ain’t got nothin’ ter hide.

“I say, ‘Well, Miss Sadie, dem folks up at de house, dey loves you.’ She sorter flincht at dis. I ’low, ‘Dey been mighty good ter you. What you done, you done done, an’ dat can’t be holp, but what you ain’t gone an’ done, dat kin be holp; an’ what you oughter do, dat oughtn’t ter be holp.’ I see ’er clinch ’er han’s an’ den I riz fum de cheer.” Suiting the action to the word, Aunt Minervy Ann rose from the step where she had been sitting, and moved toward the lady of the house.

“I riz, I did, an’ tuck my stan’ befo’ ’er. I ’low, ‘You say you love Marse Jesse, an’ you say you love his folks. Well, den ef you got any blood in you, ef you got any heart in yo’ body, ef you got any feelin’ fer anybody in de roun’ worl’ ’cep’n’ yo’ naked se’f, you’ll go up dar ter dat house an’ tell Gabe Towers dat you want ter see ’im, an’ you’ll tell Fanny Towers dat you want ter see her, an’ you’ll stan’ up befo’ um an’ tell um de tale you tol’ ter me, word fer word. Ef you’ll do dat, an’ you hatter come back here, _come! come!_ Bless God! _come!_ an’ me an’ Hamp’ll rake an’ scrape up ’nuff money fer ter kyar you whar you gwine. An’ don’t you be a’skeer’d er Gabe Towers. Me an’ Marse Tumlin ain’t a-skeer’d un ’im. I’m gwine wid you, an’ ef he say one word out de way, you des come ter de do’ an’ call me, an’ ef I don’t preach his funer’l, it’ll be bekaze de Lord’ll strike me dumb!’ _An’ she went!_”

Aunt Minervy paused. She had wrought the miracle of summoning to life one of the crises through which she had passed with others. It was not the words she used. There was nothing in them to stir the heart or quicken the pulse. Her power lay in the tones of her voice, whereby she was able to recall the passion of a moment that had long spent itself; in the fluent and responsive attitudes; in gesticulation that told far more than her words did. The light from the vestibule lamp shone full upon her and upon the lady whom she unconsciously selected to play the part of the young woman whose story she was telling. The illusion was perfect. We were in Aunt Minervy Ann’s house, Miss Sadie was sitting helpless and hopeless before her—the whole scene was vivid and complete. She paused; her arm, which had been outstretched and rigid for an instant, slowly fell to her side, and—the illusion was gone; but while it lasted, it was as real as any sudden and extraordinary experience can be.

Aunt Minervy Ann resumed her seat, with a chuckle, apparently ashamed that she had been betrayed into such a display of energy and emotion, saying, “Yessum, she sho’ went.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” remarked the lady of the house, with a long-drawn sigh of relief.

Aunt Minervy Ann laughed again, rather sheepishly, and then, after rubbing her hands together, took up the thread of the narrative, this time directing her words to me: “All de way ter de house, suh, she ain’t say two words. She had holt er my han’, but she ain’t walk like she uz weak. She went along ez peart ez I did. When we got dar, some er de niggers wuz out in de flower gyarden an’ out in de big grove callin’ ’er; an’ dey call so loud dat I hatter put um down. ‘Hush up!’ I say, ‘an’ go on ’bout yo’ business! Can’t yo’ Miss Sadie take a walk widout a whole passel er you niggers a-hollerin’ yo’ heads off?’ One un um make answer, ‘Miss Fanny huntin’ fer ’er.’ She sorter grip my han’ at dat, but I say, ‘She de one you wanter see—her an’ Gabe Towers.’

“We went up on de po’ch, an’ dar wuz Miss Fanny an’ likewise Marse Gabe. I know’d what dey wanted; dey wanted ter talk wid ’er ’bout Marse Jesse. She clum de steps fus’ an’ I clum atter her. She cotch ’er breff hard when she fus’ hit de steps, an’ den it come over me like a flash how deep an’ big her trouble wuz, an’ I tell you right now, ef dat had ’a’ been Miss Vallie gwine up dar, I b’lieve I’d ’a’ flew at ol’ Gabe Towers an’ to’ ’im lim’ fum lim’ ’fo’ anybody could ’a’ pull me off. Hit’s de trufe! You may laugh, but I sho’ would ’a’ done it. I had it in me. Miss Fanny seed sump’n wuz wrong, de minnit de light fell on de gal’s face. She say, ‘Why, Sadie, darlin’, what de matter wid you?’—des so—an’ made ez ef ter put ’er arms ’roun’ ’er; but Miss Sadie swunk back. Miss Fanny sorter swell up. She say, ‘Oh, ef I’ve hurt yo’ feelin’s ter-day—_ter-day_ uv all de days—please, please fergi’ me!’ Well, suh, I dunner whar all dis gwine ter lead ter, an’ I put in, ‘She des wanter have a talk wid you an’ Marse Gabe, Miss Fanny; an’ ef ter-day is one er de days her feelin’s oughtn’ter be hurted, take keer dat you don’t do it. Kyar ’er in de parler dar, Miss Fanny.’ I ’speck you’ll think I wuz takin’ a mighty heap on myse’f, fer a nigger ’oman,” remarked Aunt Minervy Ann, smoothing the wrinkles out of her lap, “but I wuz des ez much at home in dat house ez I wuz in my own, an’ des ez free wid um ez I wuz wid my own folks. Miss Fanny look skeer’d, an’ Marse Gabe foller’d atter, rubbin’ a little mole he had on de top er his head. When he wus worried er aggervated, he allers rub dat mole.

“Well, suh, dey went in, dey did, an’ I shot de do’ an’ tuck up my stan’ close by, ready fer to go in when Miss Sadie call me. I had myse’f keyed up ter de p’int whar I’d ’a’ tol’ Marse Gabe sump’n ’bout his own fambly connection; you know dey ain’t nobody but what got i’on rust on some er der cloze. But dey stayed in dar an’ stayed, twel I ’gun ter git oneasy. All kinder quare idees run th’oo my head. Atter while some un pull de do’ open, an’ hol’ it dat away, an’ I hear Marse Gabe say, wid a trimble an’ ketch in his th’oat, ‘Don’t talk so, chil’. Ef you done wrong, you ain’t hurt nobody but yo’se’f, an’ it oughtn’ter hurt you. You been a mighty big blessin’ ter me, an’ ter Fanny here, an’ I wouldn’t ’a’ missed knowin’ you, not fer nothin’. Wid dat, he come out cle’rin up his th’oat an’ blowin’ his nose twel it soun’ like a dinner-horn. His eye fell on me, an’ he ’low, ‘Look like you er allers on han’ when dey’s trouble.’ I made answer, ‘Well, Marse Gabe, dey might be wusser ones ’roun’ dan me.’ He look at me right hard an’ say, ‘Dey ain’t no better, Minervy Ann.’ Well, suh, little mo’ an’ I’d ’a’ broke down, it come so sudden. I had ter gulp hard an’ quick, I tell you. He say, ‘Minervy Ann, go back dar an’ tell de house-gal ter wake up de carriage-driver ef he’s ’sleep, an’ tell ’im to go meet Jesse at de train. An’ he mus’ tell Jesse dat we’d ’a’ all come, but his ma ain’t feelin’ so well.’ I say, ‘I’ll go wake ’im up myse’f, suh.’ I look in de parler an’ say, ‘Miss Sadie, does you need me right now?’ She ’low, ‘No, not right now; I’ll stay twel—twel Mr. Towers come.’ Miss Fanny wuz settin’ dar holdin’ Miss Sadie’s han’.

“I’ll never tell you how dey patcht it up in dar, but I made a long guess. Fus’ an’ fo’mus’, dey wuz right down fon’ er Miss Sadie, an’ den ef she run off time Marse Jesse put his foot in de town dey’d be a big scandal; an’ so dey fix it up dat ef she wuz bleeze ter go, ’twuz better to go a mont’ er two atter Marse Jesse come back. Folks may like you mighty well, but dey allers got one eye on der own consarns. Dat de way I put it down.

“Well, suh, de wuss job wuz lef’ fer de las’, ’kaze dar wuz Marse Jesse. Sump’n tol’ me dat he oughter know what been gwine on ’fo’ he got in de house, ’kaze den he won’t be aggervated inter sayin’ an’ doin’ sump’n he oughtn’ter. So when de carriage wuz ready, I got in an’ went down ter de depot; an’ when Marse Jesse got off de train, I wuz de fus’ one he laid eyes on. I’d ’a’ never know’d ’im in de worl’, but he know’d me. He holler out, ‘Ef dar ain’t Aunt Minervy Ann! Bless yo’ ol’ soul! how you come on anyhow?’ He come mighty nigh huggin’ me, he wuz so glad ter see me. He wuz big ez a skinned hoss an’ strong ez a mule. He say, ‘Ef I had you in my min’ once, Aunt Minervy Ann, I had you in dar ten thousan’ times.’

“Whiles de carriage rollin’ ’long an’ grindin’ de san’ I try ter gi’ ’im a kinder inkling er what been gwine on, but ’twuz all a joke wid ’im. I wuz fear’d I mought go at ’im de wrong way, but I can’t do no better. I say, ‘Marse Jesse, yo’ wife been waitin’ here fer you a long time.’ He laugh an’ ’low, ‘Oh, yes! did she bring de childun?’ I say, ‘Shucks, Marse Jesse! Dey’s a lady in deep trouble at Marse Gabe’s house, an’ I don’t want you ter go dar jokin’. She’s a monst’us fine lady, too.’ Dis kinder steady ’im, an’ he say, ‘All right, Aunt Minervy Ann; I’ll behave myse’f des like a Sunday-school scholar. I won’t say bad words an’ I won’t talk loud.’ He had his fiddle-case in his lap, an’ he drummed on it like he keepin’ time ter some chune in his min’.

“Well, suh, we got dar in de due time, an’ ’twuz a great meetin’ ’twixt Marse Jesse an’ his folks. Dey des swarmed on ’im, ez you may say, an’ while dis gwine on, I went in de parler whar Miss Sadie wuz. She wuz pale, tooby sha’, but she had done firm’d ’erse’f. She wuz standin’ by de fier-place, lookin’ down, but she lookt up when she hear de do’ open, an’ den she say, ‘I’m mighty glad it’s you, Aunt Minervy Ann; I want you ter stay in here.’ I ’low, ‘I’ll stay, honey, ef you say stay.’ Den she tuck ’er stand by me an’ cotch holt er my arm wid bofe ’er han’s an’ kinder leant ag’in me.

“Bimeby, here come Marse Jesse. Trouble wuz in his eye when he open de do’, but when he saw de gal, his face lit up des like when you strike a match in a closet. He say, ‘Why, Miss Sadie! You dunner how glad I is ter see you. I been huntin’ all over de country fer you.’ He make ez ef ter shake han’s, but she draw’d back. Dis cut ’im. He say: ‘What de matter? Who you in mournin’ fer?’ She ’low, ‘Fer myse’f.’ Wid dat she wuz gwine on ter tel ’im ’bout what she had done, but he wouldn’t have it dat way. He say, ‘When I come back ter life, atter I wuz drownded, I ’gun ter hunt fer you des ez soon’s I got out’n de hospittle. I wuz huntin’ fer you ter tell you dat I love you. I’d ’a’ tol’ you dat den, an’ I tell you dat now.’ She grip my arm mighty hard at dat. Marse Jesse went on mightly. He tell ’er dat she ain’t done nobody no harm, dat she wuz welcome ter his name ef he’d ’a’ been dead, an’ mo’ welcome now dat he wuz livin’. She try ter put in a word here an’ dar, but he won’t have it. Stan’in’ up dar he wuz ol’ Gabe Towers over ag’in; ’twuz de fus’ time I know’d he faver’d ’im.

“He tol’ ’er ’bout how he wrenched a do’ off’n one er de rooms in de boat, an’ how he floated on dat twel he got so col’ an’ num’ dat he can’t hol’ on no longer, an’ how he turn loose an’ don’t know nothin’ twel he wake up in some yuther town; an’ how, atter he git well, he had de plooisy an’ lay dar a mont’ er two, an’ den he ’gun ter hunt fer her. He went ’way up dar ter Hampsher whar she come fum, but she ain’t dar, an’ den he come home; an’ won’t she be good ’nuff ter set down an’ listen at ’im?

“Well, suh, dey wuz mo’ in Marse Jesse dan I had any idee. He wuz a rank talker, sho’. I see ’er face warmin’ up, an’ I say, ‘Miss Sadie, I ’speck I better be gwine.’ Marse Jesse say, ‘You ain’t in my way, Aunt Minervy Ann; I done foun’ my sweetheart, an’ I ain’t gwine ter lose ’er no mo’, you kin des bet on dat.’ She ain’t say nothin’ an’ I know’d purty well dat eve’ything wuz all skew vee.”

“I hope they married,” remarked the lady of the house, after waiting a moment for Aunt Minervy Ann to resume. There was just a shade of suspicion in her tone.

“Oh, dey married, all right ’nuff,” said Aunt Minervy Ann, laughing.

“Didn’t it create a good deal of talk?” the lady asked, suspicion still in her voice.

“Talk? No, ma’m! De man what dey git de license fum wuz Miss Fanny’s br’er, Gus Featherstone, an’ de man what married um wuz Marse Gabe’s bro’er, John Towers. Dey wa’n’t nobody ter do no talkin’. De nex’ mornin’ me an Miss Sadie an’ Marse Jesse got in de carriage an’ drove out ter John Towers’s place whar he runnin’ a church, an’ ’twuz all done an’ over wid mos’ quick ez a nigger kin swaller a dram.”

“What do you think of it?” I asked the lady of the house.

“Why, it is almost like a story in a book.”

“Does dey put dat kinder doin’s in books?” asked Aunt Minervy Ann, with some solicitude.

“Certainly,” replied the lady.

“Wid all de turmile, an’ trouble, an’ tribulation—an’ all de worry an’ aggervation? Well, Hamp wanted me ter l’arn how ter read, but I thank my stars dat I can’t read no books. Dey’s ’nuff er all dat right whar we live at widout huntin’ it up in books.”

After this just observation, it was time to put out the lights.

III

HOW AUNT MINERVY ANN RAN AWAY AND RAN BACK AGAIN

In the matter of attending the fair at Halcyondale, Aunt Minervy Ann’s hospitable wishes jumped with my own desires, and it was not difficult to give her a hard and fast promise in the matter; nor did it take the edge off my desires to entertain a suspicion, verified long afterward, that Aunt Minervy Ann’s anxiety was based on a hope, expressed by Major Perdue, that the fair would be properly handled in the Atlanta papers.

The directors of the fair were represented at the little railway station, at Halcyondale, by a committee, and into the hands of this committee fell every man, woman, and child that stepped from the passing trains. It mattered little what the business of these incoming travellers was; whether they came to visit the fair or to attend to their own private affairs. They were seized, bag and baggage, by the committee and borne triumphantly to the hotel, or to a boarding-place, or to some private house. The members of the committee had a duty to perform, and they performed it with an energy and a thoroughness that was amazing if not altogether satisfactory. As I remember, this vigorous body was called the Committee on Public Comfort, and most heroically did it live up to its name and its duties.

These things I learned by observation and not by experience, for before the train on which I was a passenger had cleared the suburbs of Atlanta, I caught a glimpse of Major Tumlin Perdue, who had long been a prominent citizen of Halcyondale. He had changed but little during the ten years. His hair was whiter, and he was a trifle thinner, but his complexion was still rosy and his manners as buoyant as ever. I doubted whether he would know me again, though he had been very friendly with me in the old days, seeming to know by instinct just when and how to drop a word of encouragement and appreciation, and so I forbore to renew the acquaintance. The Major could be boisterous enough in those times when in the humor, but when at his best he had more ways like those of a woman (and a noble and tender-hearted woman at that) than any man I had ever known. He had a woman’s tact, intuition, and sympathy; and these qualities were so exquisitely developed in him that they lifted him high in the estimation of a young man who was living away from his mother, and who was somewhat lonely on that account.

Presently, the Major came along the aisle for a drink of water. As he was in the act of drinking, his eyes met mine, and he recognized me instantly. He swallowed the water with a gulp.

“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed, greeting me with the simple cordiality that springs from an affectionate nature. “Why, I wouldn’t take ten dollars for this! I was thinking about you this very day. Don’t you remember the night we went out to ku-klux the Ku-klux, and the chap that mighty nigh broke his neck running into a wire clothes-line? I saw him to-day. He would hardly speak to me,” the Major went on, laughing heartily. “He’s never got over that night’s business. I thought about you, and I started to hunt you up; but you know how it is in Atlanta. Folks ain’t got time to eat, much less to tell you where anybody lives. A man that’s too busy is bound to worry, and worry will kill him every bit and grain as quick as John Barleycorn. Business is bound to be the ruin of this country, and if you don’t live to see it, your children will.”

Thus the Major talked, blending wisdom with impracticable ideas in the most delightful way. He seemed to be highly pleased when he found that I was to spend a week at Halcyondale, attending the fair and renewing old friendships.

“Then you belong to me!” he exclaimed. “It’s no use,” he went on, shaking his head when I would have protested against imposing on his good-nature; “you needn’t say a word. The tavern is stuffed full of people, and even if it wasn’t, you’d go to my house. If you ain’t been ruined by living in Atlanta, it’ll seem like home to you. Dang it all! I’ll _make_ it seem like home to you anyhow.”

Now, the affectation of hospitality is one of the commonest hypocrisies in life, and, to a thoughtful man, one of the most sinister; but the Major’s hospitality was genuine. It was brought over from the times before the war, and had stood the test of age and long usage, and, most trying of all, the test of poverty. “If you were welcome when I was well off, how much more welcome you’ll be now that I am poor!” This was not said by the Major, but by one of his contemporaries. The phrase fitted a whole generation of noble men and women, and I thank Heaven that it was true at one time even if it is not true now.

When the train, with much clinking and clanking and hissing, came to a standstill at Halcyondale, the Major hustled me off on the side opposite the station, and so I escaped the ordeal of resisting the efforts of the Committee on Public Comfort to convey me to a lodging not of my own selection. The Major’s buggy was in waiting, with a negro driver, who got out to make room for me. He bowed very politely, calling me by name.

“You remember Hamp, I reckon,” said the Major. “He was a member of the Legislature when you lived here.”

Certainly I remembered Hamp, who was Aunt Minervy Ann’s husband. I inquired about her, and Hamp, who had swung up to the trunk-rack as the buggy moved off, replied that she was at home and as well as she could be.

“Yes,” said the Major, “she’s at my house. You may _see_ somebody else besides Minervy Ann, but you won’t _hear_ anybody else. She owns the whole place and the people on it. I had a Boston man to dinner some time ago, one of Conant’s friends—you remember Paul Conant, don’t you?—and I stirred Minervy Ann up just to see what the man would say. We had a terrible quarrel, and the man never did know it was all in fun. He said they never would have such a lack of discipline among the servants in Boston. I told him I would give him any reasonable amount if he would go out and discipline Minervy Ann, just to show me how it was done. It would have been better than a circus. You heard her, didn’t you, Hamp?”

Hamp chuckled good-naturedly. “Yasser, I did, an’ it make col’ chills run over me ter hear how Minervy Ann went on. She cert’n’y did try herse’f dat day.”

The Major smiled a little proudly as I thought, slapped the horse—a bob-tailed black—with the left rein, and we went skimming along the level, sandy street at a three-minute gait. In a short while we were at the Major’s house, where I received a warm welcome from his daughter, whom I had known when she was a school-girl. She was now Mrs. Paul Conant, and even more beautiful as a matron than she had been as a girl. I had also known her husband, who had begun his business career in the town a year or two before I left, and even at that time he was one of the most prominent and promising young business men in the town.

He had served in the army the last year of the war, and the service did him a world of good, physically and mentally. His faculties were broadened and enlarged. Contact with all sorts and conditions of men gave him ample knowledge of his kind, and yet he kept in touch with the finer issues of life. He was ripened and not hardened.

The surrender had no such crushing effects on him as it had on older men. It left him youth, and where youth is there must be hope and energy. He returned home, remained a few weeks, sold a couple of horses he had picked up in the track of Sherman’s army, and then went into the office of a cotton factor in Savannah, giving his services for the knowledge and experience he desired to gain. In a very short time he learned all the secrets of sampling and grading the great staple. He might have remained in the office at a salary, for his aptness had made him useful, but he preferred to return to Halcyondale, where he engaged in buying cotton on his own account. There was just enough risk in this to stimulate his energies, and not enough to lead to serious speculation.

To this business he added others as his capital grew, and he was soon the most prosperous man in the town. He had formed the stock company under whose auspices the county fair was held, and was president of the board of directors.

Aunt Minervy Ann was very much in evidence, for she acted as cook, nurse, and house-girl. The first glimpse I had of her, she had a bucket of water in her right hand and Conant’s baby—a bouncing boy—on her left arm. Just then Major Perdue hustled me off to my room, thus postponing, as I thought, the greeting I had for Aunt Minervy Ann. But presently I heard her coming upstairs talking to herself.

“Ef dey gwine ter have folks puttin’ up wid um, dey better tell me in de due time, so I can fix up fer um. Dey ain’t been no fresh water in deze rooms sence dat baby wuz born’d.”

She went on to the end of the hall and looked in each of the rooms. Then, with an exclamation I failed to catch, she knocked at my door, which was promptly opened. As she saw me a broad smile flashed over her good-natured face.