Chapter II: Part 2

“’Lias is pow’ful fon’ o’ fishin’, hisse’f. I ’low he kin show you some mighty good places. Cain’t you, ’Lias?”

“I reckon.”

’Lias was thinking. He was distinctly grateful that the circumstances of his meeting with the minister had been so deftly passed over. But with a half idea of the superior moral responsibility under which a man in Dokesbury’s position laboured, he wondered vaguely—to put it in his own thought-words—“ef de preachah hadn’t put’ nigh lied.” However, he was willing to forgive this little lapse of veracity, if such it was, out of consideration for the anxiety it spared his mother.

When Stephen Gray came in to dinner, he was no less pleased than his wife to note the terms of friendship on which the minister received his son. On his face was the first smile that Dokesbury had seen there, and he awakened from his taciturnity and proffered much information as to the fishing-places thereabout. The young minister accounted this a distinct gain. Anything more than a frowning silence from the “little yaller man” was gain.

The fishing that afternoon was particularly good. Catfish, chubs, and suckers were landed in numbers sufficient to please the heart of any amateur angler.

’Lias was happy, and the minister was in the best of spirits, for his charge seemed promising. He looked on at the boy’s jovial face, and laughed within himself; for, mused he, “it is so much harder for the devil to get into a cheerful heart than into a sullen, gloomy one.” By the time they were ready to go home Harold Dokesbury had received a promise from ’Lias to attend service the next morning and hear the sermon.

There was a great jollification over the fish supper that night, and ’Lias and the minister were the heroes of the occasion. The old man again broke his silence, and recounted, with infinite dryness, ancient tales of his prowess with rod and line; while Aunt ‘Ca’line’ told of famous fish suppers that in the bygone days she had cooked for “de white folks.” In the midst of it all, however, ’Lias disappeared. No one had noticed when he slipped out, but all seemed to become conscious of his absence about the same time. The talk shifted, and finally simmered into silence.

When the Rev. Mr. Dokesbury went to bed that night, his charge had not yet returned.

The young minister woke early on the Sabbath morning, and he may be forgiven that the prospect of the ordeal through which he had to pass drove his care for ’Lias out of mind for the first few hours. But as he walked to church, flanked on one side by Aunt Caroline in the stiffest of ginghams and on the other by her husband stately in the magnificence of an antiquated “Jim-swinger,” his mind went back to the boy with sorrow. Where was he? What was he doing? Had the fear of a dull church service frightened him back to his old habits and haunts? There was a new sadness at the preacher’s heart as he threaded his way down the crowded church and ascended the rude pulpit.

The church was stiflingly hot, and the morning sun still beat relentlessly in through the plain windows. The seats were rude wooden benches, in some instances without backs. To the right, filling the inner corner, sat the pillars of the church, stern, grim, and critical. Opposite them, and, like them, in seats at right angles to the main body, sat the older sisters, some of them dressed with good old-fashioned simplicity, while others yielding to newer tendencies were gotten up in gaudy attempts at finery. In the rear seats a dozen or so much beribboned mulatto girls tittered and giggled, and cast bold glances at the minister.

The young man sighed as he placed the manuscript of his sermon between the leaves of the tattered Bible. “And this is Mt. Hope,” he was again saying to himself.

It was after the prayer and in the midst of the second hymn that a more pronounced titter from the back seats drew his attention. He raised his head to cast a reproving glance at the irreverent, but the sight that met his eyes turned that look into one of horror. ’Lias had just entered the church, and with every mark of beastly intoxication was staggering up the aisle to a seat, into which he tumbled in a drunken heap. The preacher’s soul turned sick within him, and his eyes sought the face of the mother and father. The old woman was wiping her eyes, and the old man sat with his gaze bent upon the floor, lines of sorrow drawn about his wrinkled mouth.

All of a sudden a great revulsion of feeling came over Dokesbury. Trembling he rose and opened the Bible. There lay his sermon, polished and perfected. The opening lines seemed to him like glints from a bright cold crystal. What had he to say to these people, when the full realisation of human sorrow and care and of human degradation had just come to him? What had they to do with firstlies and secondlies, with premises and conclusions? What they wanted was a strong hand to help them over the hard places of life and a loud voice to cheer them through the dark. He closed the book again upon his precious sermon. A something new had been born in his heart. He let his glance rest for another instant on the mother’s pained face and the father’s bowed form, and then turning to the congregation began, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me: for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.” Out of the fulness of his heart he spoke unto them. Their great need informed his utterance. He forgot his carefully turned sentences and perfectly rounded periods. He forgot all save that here was the well-being of a community put into his hands whose real condition he had not even suspected until now. The situation wrought him up. His words went forth like winged fire, and the emotional people were moved beyond control. They shouted, and clapped their hands, and praised the Lord loudly.

When the service was over, there was much gathering about the young preacher, and hand-shaking. Through all ’Lias had slept. His mother started toward him; but the minister managed to whisper to her, “Leave him to me.” When the congregation had passed out, Dokesbury shook ’Lias. The boy woke, partially sobered, and his face fell before the preacher’s eyes.

“Come, my boy, let’s go home.” Arm in arm they went out into the street, where a number of scoffers had gathered to have a laugh at the abashed boy; but Harold Dokesbury’s strong arm steadied his steps, and something in his face checked the crowd’s hilarity. Silently they cleared the way, and the two passed among them and went home.

The minister saw clearly the things which he had to combat in his community, and through this one victim he determined to fight the general evil. The people with whom he had to deal were children who must be led by the hand. The boy lying in drunken sleep upon his bed was no worse than the rest of them. He was an epitome of the evil, as his parents were of the sorrows, of the place.

He could not talk to Elias. He could not lecture him. He would only be dashing his words against the accumulated evil of years of bondage as the ripples of a summer sea beat against a stone wall. It was not the wickedness of this boy he was fighting or even the wrong-doing of Mt. Hope. It was the aggregation of the evils of the fathers, the grandfathers, the masters and mistresses of these people. Against this what could talk avail?

The boy slept on, and the afternoon passed heavily away. Aunt Caroline was finding solace in her pipe, and Stephen Gray sulked in moody silence beside the hearth. Neither of them joined their guest at evening service.

He went, however. It was hard to face those people again after the events of the morning. He could feel them covertly nudging each other and grinning as he went up to the pulpit. He chided himself for the momentary annoyance it caused him. Were they not like so many naughty, irresponsible children?

The service passed without unpleasantness, save that he went home with an annoyingly vivid impression of a yellow girl with red ribbons on her hat, who pretended to be impressed by his sermon and made eyes at him from behind her handkerchief.

On the way to his room that night, as he passed Stephen Gray, the old man whispered huskily, “It’s de fus’ time ’Lias evah done dat.”

It was the only word he had spoken since morning.

A sound sleep refreshed Dokesbury, and restored the tone to his overtaxed nerves. When he came out in the morning, Elias was already in the kitchen. He too had slept off his indisposition, but it had been succeeded by a painful embarrassment that proved an effectual barrier to all intercourse with him. The minister talked lightly and amusingly, but the boy never raised his eyes from his plate, and only spoke when he was compelled to answer some direct questions.

Harold Dokesbury knew that unless he could overcome this reserve, his power over the youth was gone. He bent every effort to do it.

“What do you say to a turn down the street with me?” he asked as he rose from breakfast.

’Lias shook his head.

“What! You haven’t deserted me already?”

The older people had gone out, but young Gray looked furtively about before he replied: “You know I ain’t fittin’ to go out with you—aftah—aftah—yestiddy.”

A dozen appropriate texts rose in the preacher’s mind, but he knew that it was not a preaching time, so he contented himself with saying,—

“Oh, get out! Come along!”

“No, I cain’t. I cain’t. I wisht I could! You needn’t think I’s ashamed, ’cause I ain’t. Plenty of ’em git drunk, an’ I don’t keer nothin’ ’bout dat”—this in a defiant tone.

“Well, why not come along, then?”

“I tell you I cain’t. Don’t ax me no mo’. It ain’t on my account I won’t go. It’s you.”

“Me! Why, I want you to go.”

“I know you does, but I mustn’t. Cain’t you see that dey’d be glad to say dat—dat you was in cahoots wif me an’ you tuk yo’ dram on de sly?”

“I don’t care what they say so long as it isn’t true. Are you coming?”

“No, I ain’t.”

He was perfectly determined, and Dokesbury saw that there was no use arguing with him. So with a resigned “All right!” he strode out the gate and up the street, thinking of the problem he had to solve.

There was good in Elias Gray, he knew. It was a shame that it should be lost. It would be lost unless he were drawn strongly away from the paths he was treading. But how could it be done? Was there no point in his mind that could be reached by what was other than evil? That was the thing to be found out. Then he paused to ask himself if, after all, he were not trying to do too much,—trying, in fact, to play Providence to Elias. He found himself involuntarily wanting to shift the responsibility of planning for the youth. He wished that something entirely independent of his intentions would happen.

Just then something did happen. A piece of soft mud hurled from some unknown source caught the minister square in the chest, and spattered over his clothes. He raised his eyes and glanced about quickly, but no one was in sight. Whoever the foe was, he was securely ambushed.

“Thrown by the hand of a man,” mused Dokesbury, “prompted by the malice of a child.”

He went on his way, finished his business, and returned to the house.

“La, Brothah Dokesbury!” exclaimed Aunt Caroline, “what’s de mattah ’f yo’ shu’t bosom?”

“Oh, that’s where one of our good citizens left his card.”

“You don’ mean to say none o’ dem low-life scoun’els—”

“I don’t know who did it. He took particular pains to keep out of sight.”

“’Lias!” the old woman cried, turning on her son, “wha’ ’d you let Brothah Dokesbury go off by hisse’f fu’? Whyn’t you go ’long an’ tek keer o’ him?”

The old lady stopped even in the midst of her tirade, as her eyes took in the expression on her son’s face.

“I’ll kill some o’ dem damn—”

“’Lias!”

“’Scuse me, Mistah Dokesbury, but I feel lak I’ll bus’ ef I don’t ’spress myse’f. It makes me so mad. Don’t you go out o’ hyeah no mo’ ’dout me. I’ll go ’long an’ I’ll brek somebody’s haid wif a stone.”

“’Lias! how you talkin’ fo’ de ministah?”

“Well, dat’s whut I’ll do, ’cause I kin out-th’ow any of ’em an’ I know dey hidin’-places.”

“I’ll be glad to accept your protection,” said Dokesbury.

He saw his advantage, and was thankful for the mud,—the one thing that without an effort restored the easy relations between himself and his protégé.

Ostensibly these relations were reversed, and Elias went out with the preacher as a guardian and protector. But the minister was laying his nets. It was on one of these rambles that he broached to ’Lias a subject which he had been considering for some time.

“Look here, ’Lias,” he said, “what are you going to do with that big back yard of yours?”

“Oh, nothin’. ’Tain’t no ’count to raise nothin’ in.”

“It may not be fit for vegetables, but it will raise something.”

“What?”

“Chickens. That’s what.”

Elias laughed sympathetically.

“I’d lak to eat de chickens I raise. I wouldn’t want to be feedin’ de neighbourhood.”

“Plenty of boards, slats, wire, and a good lock and key would fix that all right.”

“Yes, but whah’m I gwine to git all dem things?”

“Why, I’ll go in with you and furnish the money, and help you build the coops. Then you can sell chickens and eggs, and we’ll go halves on the profits.”

“Hush, man!” cried ’Lias, in delight.

So the matter was settled, and, as Aunt Caroline expressed it, “Fu’ a week er sich a mattah, you nevah did see sich ta’in’ down an’ buildin’ up in all yo’ bo’n days.”

’Lias went at the work with zest, and Dokesbury noticed his skill with tools. He let fall the remark: “Say, ’Lias, there’s a school near here where they teach carpentering; why don’t you go and learn?”

“What I gwine to do with bein’ a cyahpenter?”

“Repair some of these houses around Mt. Hope, if nothing more,” Dokesbury responded, laughing; and there the matter rested.

The work prospered, and as the weeks went on, ’Lias’ enterprise became the town’s talk. One of Aunt Caroline’s patrons who had come with some orders about work regarded the changed condition of affairs, and said, “Why, Aunt Caroline, this doesn’t look like the same place. I’ll have to buy some eggs from you; you keep your yard and hen-house so nice, it’s an advertisement for the eggs.”

“Don’t talk to me nothin’ ’bout dat ya’d, Miss Lucy,” Aunt Caroline had retorted. “Dat ’long to ’Lias an’ de preachah. Hit dey doin’s. Dey done mos’ nigh drove me out wif dey cleanness. I ain’t nevah seed no sich ca’in’ on in my life befo’. Why, my ’Lias done got right brigity an’ talk about bein’ somep’n’.”

Dokesbury had retired from his partnership with the boy save in so far as he acted as a general supervisor. His share had been sold to a friend of ’Lias, Jim Hughes. The two seemed to have no other thought save of raising, tending, and selling chickens.

Mt. Hope looked on and ceased to scoff. Money is a great dignifier, and Jim and ’Lias were making money. There had been some sniffs when the latter had hinged the front gate and whitewashed his mother’s cabin, but even that had been accepted now as a matter of course.

Dokesbury had done his work. He, too, looked on, and in some satisfaction.

“Let the leaven work,” he said, “and all Mt. Hope must rise.”

It was one day, nearly a year later, that “old lady Hughes” dropped in on Aunt Caroline for a chat.

“Well, I do say, Sis’ Ca’line, dem two boys o’ ourn done sot dis town on fiah.”

“What now, Sis’ Lizy?”

“Why, evah sence ’Lias tuk it into his haid to be a cyahpenter an’ Jim ’cided to go ’long an’ lu’n to be a blacksmif, some o’ dese hyeah othah young people’s been tryin’ to do somep’n’.”

“All dey wanted was a staht.”

“Well, now will you b’lieve me, dat no-’count Tom Johnson done opened a fish sto’, an’ he has de boys an’ men bring him dey fish all de time. He give ’em a little somep’n’ fu’ dey ketch, den he go sell ’em to de white folks.”

“Lawd, how long!”

“An’ what you think he say?”

“I do’ know, sis’.”

“He say ez soon ’z he git money enough, he gwine to dat school whah ’Lias an’ Jim gone an’ lu’n to fahm scientific.”

“Bless de Lawd! Well, ’um, I don’ put nothin’ pas’ de young folks now.”

Mt. Hope had at last awakened. Something had come to her to which she might aspire,—something that she could understand and reach. She was not soaring, but she was rising above the degradation in which Harold Dokesbury had found her. And for her and him the ordeal had passed.

THE COLONEL’S AWAKENING

THE COLONEL’S AWAKENING

It was the morning before Christmas. The cold winter sunlight fell brightly through the window into a small room where an old man was sitting. The room, now bare and cheerless, still retained evidences of having once been the abode of refinement and luxury. It was the one open chamber of many in a great rambling old Virginia house, which in its time had been one of the proudest in the county. But it had been in the path of the hurricane of war, and had been shorn of its glory as a tree is stripped of its foliage. Now, like the bare tree, dismantled, it remained, and this one old man, with the aristocratic face, clung to it like the last leaf.

He did not turn his head when an ancient serving-man came in and began laying the things for breakfast. After a while the servant spoke: “I got a monst’ous fine breakfus’ fu’ you dis mo’nin’, Mas’ Estridge. I got fresh aigs, an’ beat biscuits, an Lize done fried you a young chicken dat’ll sholy mek yo’ mouf worter.”

“Thank you, Ike, thank you,” was the dignified response. “Lize is a likely girl, and she’s improving in her cooking greatly.”

“Yes, Mas’ Estridge, she sho is a mighty fine ooman.”

“And you’re not a bad servant yourself, Ike,” the old man went on, with an air of youthful playfulness that ill accorded with his aged face. “I expect some day you’ll be coming around asking me to let you marry Lize, eh! What have you got to say to that?”

“I reckon dat’s right, mastah, I reckon dat’s mighty nigh right.”

“Well, we shall see about it when the time comes; we shall see about it.”

“Lawd, how long!” mumbled the old servant to himself as he went on about his work. “Ain’t Mas’ Bob nevah gwine to git his almanec straight? He been gwine on dis way fu’ ovah twenty yeahs now. He cain’t git it thoo’ his haid dat time been a-passin’. Hyeah I done been ma’ied to Lize fu’ lo dese many yeahs, an’ we’ve got ma’ied chillum, but he still think I’s a-cou’tin’ huh.”

To Colonel Robert Estridge time had not passed and conditions had not changed for a generation. He was still the gallant aristocrat he had been when the war broke out,—a little past the age to enlist himself, but able and glad to give two sons to the cause of the South. They had gone out, light-hearted and gay, and brave in their military trappings and suits of gray. The father had watched them away with moist eyes and a swelling bosom. After that the tide of war had surged on and on, had even rolled to his very gates, and the widowed man watched and waited for it to bring his boys back to him. One of them came. They brought him back from the valley of the Shenandoah, and laid him in the old orchard out there behind the house. Then all the love of the father was concentrated upon the one remaining son, and his calendar could know but one day and that the one on which his Bob, his namesake and his youngest, should return to him. But one day there came to him the news that his boy had fallen in the front of a terrific fight, and in the haste of retreat he had been buried with the unknown dead. Into that trench, among the unknown, Colonel Robert Estridge had laid his heart, and there it had stayed. Time stopped, and his faculties wandered. He lived always in the dear past. The present and future were not. He did not even know when the fortunes of war brought an opposing host to his very doors. He was unconscious of it all when they devoured his substance like a plague of locusts. It was all a blank to him when the old manor house was fired and he was like to lose his possessions and his life. When his servants left him he did not know, but sat and gave orders to the one faithful retainer as though he were ordering the old host of blacks. And so for more than a generation he had lived.

“Hope you gwine to enjoy yo’ Christmas Eve breakfus’, Mas’ Estridge,” said the old servant.

“Christmas Eve, Christmas Eve? Yes, yes, so it is. To-morrow is Christmas Day, and I’m afraid I have been rather sluggish in getting things ready for the celebration. I reckon the darkies have already begun to jubilate and to shirk in consequence, and I won’t be able to get a thing done decently for a week.”

“Don’t you bother ’bout none o’ de res’, Mas’ Estridge; you kin ’pend on me—I ain’t gwine to shu’k even ef ’t is Christmus.”

“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.

“Look out, brothah, you gwine erlong thoo dis worl’ sailin’ on flowery beds of ease. Look out, my sistah, you’s a-walkin’ in de sof’ pafs an’ a-dressin’ fine. Ain’t nobidy a-troublin’ you, nobidy ain’t a-backbitin’ you, nobidy ain’t a-castin’ yo’ name out as evil. You all right an’ movin’ smoov. But I want you to stop an’ ’zamine yo’se’ves. I want you to settle whut kin’ o’ fruit you ba’in’, whut kin’ o’ light you showin’ fo’f to de worl’. An’ I want you to stop an’ tu’n erroun’ when you fin’ out dat you ba’in’ bad fruit, an’ de debbil ain’t bothahed erbout you ’ca’se he knows you his’n anyhow. ‘By deir fruits shell you know dem.’”

The minister ended his sermon, and the spell broke. Collection was called for and taken, and the meeting dismissed.

“Wha’ ’d you think o’ dat sermon?” asked Sister Williams of one of her good friends; and the good friend answered,—

“Tsch, pshaw! dat man jes’ tuk his tex’ at de fust an’ nevah lef’ it.”

Brother Sneedon remarked to a friend: “Well, he did try to use a good deal o’ high langgidge, but whut we want is grace an’ speritual feelin’.”

The Williams faction went home with colours flying. They took the preacher to dinner. They were exultant. The friends of Brother Sneedon were silent but thoughtful.

It was true, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the Reverend Elias Smith had made a wonderful impression upon his hearers,—an impression that might not entirely fade away before the night on which the new pastor was to be voted for. Comments on the sermon did not end with the closing of that Sabbath day. The discussion of its excellences was prolonged into the next week, and continued with a persistency dangerous to the aspirations of any rival candidate. No one was more fully conscious of this menacing condition of affairs than Hezekiah Sneedon himself. He knew that for the minds of the people to rest long upon the exploits of Elder Smith would be fatal to the chances of his own candidate; so he set about inventing some way to turn the current of public thought into another channel. And nothing but a powerful agency could turn it. But in fertility of resources Hezekiah Sneedon was Napoleonic. Though his diplomacy was greatly taxed in this case, he came out victorious and with colours flying when he hit upon the happy idea of a “’possum supper.” That would give the people something else to talk about beside the Reverend Elias Smith and his wonderful sermon. But think not, O reader, that the intellect that conceived this new idea was so lacking in the essential qualities of diplomacy as to rush in his substitute, have done with it, and leave the public’s attention to revert to its former object. Brother Sneedon was too wary for this. Indeed, he did send his invitations out early to the congregation; but this only aroused discussion and created anticipation which was allowed to grow and gather strength until the very Saturday evening on which the event occurred.

Sister Hannah Williams saw through the plot immediately, but she could not play counter, so she contented herself with saying: “Dat Hezekiah Sneedon is sholy de bigges’ scamp dat evah trod shoe-leathah.” But nevertheless, she did not refuse an invitation to be present at the supper. She would go, she said, for the purpose of seeing “how things went on.” But she added, as a sort of implied apology to her conscience, “and den I’s powahful fond o’ ’possum, anyhow.”

In inviting Sister Williams, Brother Sneedon had taken advantage of the excellent example which that good woman had set him, and was carrying the war right into the enemy’s country; but he had gone farther in one direction, and by the time the eventful evening arrived had prepared for his guests a _coup d’état_ which was unanticipated even by his own wife.