Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

"Saturday!" exclaimed Theodora, "I have no end of things for you to do, dearest. I want you to fetch Major Philibeg over from the barracks in your trap, and Sunday you must go to church, you know, dear love."

"Certainly, my own," meekly responded the once redoubtable man who had killed three wives. At this William McBean suddenly darted out of the room, and was found half an hour afterward haw-hawing in the smoking-room. The spectacle of the British lion with his tail between his legs seemed to afford William rapturous amusement.

The Marsh meadow was drawn the next day, but the marquis, transformed from a lion into a lamb, was not among the huntsmen. After performing all of Theodora's errands, he was allowed, as a treat, a game of tennis with the chaplain of the castle--for this young American marchioness not only had her private chaplain, but would have had her private archbishop if she could have had her way, so naturally did she take to her privileged class. She "my loved" and "my deared" the marquis at a great rate, but Hercules spinning flax was a picture of manliness alongside of him. Anne's kind heart disposed her to take his part somewhat, but William McBean, who chuckled incessantly at the state of affairs, encouraged Theodora to lay on like Macduff. The marquis was made to wear goloshes whenever he went out, his cigars were docked, and at midnight, just as the fun grew fast and furious in the smoking-room, Theodora's own footman would tap at the door, and the marquis, with a feeble pretense of "coming back after a while" would disappear. He never came back though. William McBean, who was the life and soul of the smoking-room, would make this hypocritical promise of the marquis's return an excuse for keeping up a rollicking good time until unearthly hours of the morning, when the last cigar would be smoked, the last story told, the last punch brewed.

Wherever Theodora moved she was accompanied by a suite, consisting of the marquis, the chaplain, the footman, and the poodle--and of these, the one most under her thumb was the once terrible Sir John Blood, whom his own mother would scarcely have recognized, so wonderfully had his American wife changed, or as Theodora expressed it, reformed him.

On the Sunday, a respectable contingent was mustered for service in the castle chapel. The marquis complained of a cold, but was nevertheless present at both morning and evening service, by the side of Theodora, who had her poodle on the other side.

Toward twilight Mrs. Wodehouse peeped into the little morning room used by Theodora. By the dusky light she saw her seated at the cottage piano. She was playing chords softly, while the poor marquis, sitting by her with his throat wrapped up in flannels was warbling in a hoarse voice but with much piety:

"A consecrated cross I'd bear."

Mrs. Wodehouse raised her hands in a paroxysm of silent surprise.

"A consecrated cross he'd bear!" she exclaimed presently, in a whisper. "Well he's got it--he's got an American wife!"

TUBAL THE FIDDLER.

"You ain' never hearn 'bout we-all's Tubal? I thought ev'ybody in de State uv Virginny had done heah 'bout Tubal de fiddler."

Outside the cabin door the sun of May shone bright, beautiful, intoxicating. The old negro held his ragged hat in his lap, and sat on the corner of the bench that caught the full glare of the sun, unvexed by the dappled shadows of the black-leaved poplars.

"Tubal he _wuz_ a fiddler, Gord A'mighty knows. Nobody never did know how he learn ter play de fiddle. Hit mus' er come ter him natchel, like de way de bees sing in clover time, 'kase one day ole marse gone ter git he fiddle outen de case, an' 'twarn't d'yar! You jes' oughter heah ole marse sw'ar! He allers could cuss an' sw'ar like a gentmun; an' ef he didn't f'yar smoke, an' sizzle dat day dis nigger is a liar. All day long ole marse he r'ar an' pitch. But when de han's come in at sundown, Yaller Josh, de hade man, he brung Tubal 'long to'des de house. Josh he hol' little Tubal by de collar, an' Tubal he walk 'long, playin' de fiddle, an' he never stop. Josh he haul Tubal up 'fo' ole marse, settin' on de po'ch, an' it tu'n out dat little coon Tubal had been settin' 'hine de straw-stacks all day long learnin' ter play on ole marse's fiddle! He had done tooken it! He had acshilly done tooken it! 'Fo' ole marse could git he bref ter bawl out, Tubal he say, "Marster, please, sir; jes' listen, sir;" an' he strike up 'Forked Deer,' an he play de same ez any morkin[1] singin'. Old marse he jes' set d'yar an' st'yar at de boy. Den Tubal he teched up 'Snowbird on de Ashbank,' an' he 'gin ter shuffle he foots on de po'ch, while ole marse he beat de flo' wid he stick; but when Tubal come ter play 'Kiss me sweetly,' he back-step all de time he playin' it; an' fust thing we all see ole marse he jump up an' start ter footin' it, doin' de back-step, double-shuffle, cut de pigeon wing, an' ev'ything--he an' Tubal jes' dancin' a reg'lar breakdown twell de po'ch rattle."

[1] Mocking-bird.

"'Twuz a sight, I tell you, wid Tubal sawin' de bow, an' he an' ole marse, bofe on 'em, whackin' de groun'. Den ole marse he tooken de fiddle an' _he_ play, an Tubal _he_ dance, an' d'yar dey wuz!"

"Arter dat, ole marse buy Tubal a fiddle fer hisse'f, an' Tubal he never do no mo' wuk, 'scusin' 'twas wid de fiddle an de bow. He never wuk in de crap. He make 'tense he wait in de house; but Unc' Daniel, dat wuz de dinin'-room servant, he say Tubal warn' no more use ter him dan de fiddle wuz. In dem times, 'fo' de cullud folks wuz free an' enlightenment, 'twarn' counted no sin fer ter play on de fiddle. Now de niggers know de devil iz a fiddler, an', consequenchical, de chu'ch members doan' play on nuttin', 'cep' 'tis de 'corjion. But ez fer 'ligion, Tubal he didn' have none. Oncet when ev'y nigger on de Shelter plantation was seekin' 'cep' Tubal, ole marse he beller, "You kin all git jes' ez much 'ligion ez you kin tote, but ef I cotch dat fiddlin' Tubal seekin' an' cryin' an' prayin', I lay I'll wallop de Gorspel outen him 'fo' he know it, genteel an' quick." An' he would, too But Tubal warn't a seeker, er even a backslider. Den de white folks in de county got ter sen'in' fer him ter play at de parties, an' ole marse he gin him a ole jinny mule dat th'o' ev'ybody dat ever did try to ride her. Tubal he sot on dat jinny mule jes' a hol'in' on by he knees, wid he fiddle under he chin, an' he play 'Billy in de Lowgrounds' fer life. Jinny didn' know what ter make er dat; so she ciphered it out, an' say ter herse'f: 'Dis heah nigger mus' be Kun'l Boswell's Tubal. Tain't wuff while ter wrastle wid dat nigger.' An' she didn'. Ole marse he wuz a widower, an' he had done los' bofe he chillen, but he had two gran'sons--Marse Jack Boswell an' Marse Page Carter--dat live at de Shelter, an' wuz gwi' git all ole marse lan' an' niggers. I doan' know how 'twuz, but Tubal an' all de black folks got de notion dat he wuz gwi' b'long ter Marse Page when ole marse die an' de niggers wuz 'vided out. Tubal sut'ny did love Marse Page, an' track him same like a dog. Dey allers got in mischief toge'er; an' Marse Page take a whuppin' fer hisse'f, but he allers try an' baig Tubal off.

"Ole marse he wuz mighty cur'us 'bout some things. He want jes' three hunderd niggers--no mo' 'n' no less. Sometimes de black folks teck ter dyin', an' he git down ter two hunderd an' ninety odd. Ole marse he groan an' moan, an' say he c'yarn wuk de Shelter plantation wid less'n three hunderd niggers, an' ef dey keep on dyin' in dis infernal discontemptuous way, he gwi' be a bankrup'. Den, fust thing, de black babies would come like de blackberries on de bushes, an' may be he have three hunderd an' fifteen. Den ole marse would cuss twell you see de brimstone in de a'r, an' say dat de Shelter place c'yarn' s'pport mo' 'n three hunderd niggers nohow, an' ef dey keep on gittin' born, de owdacious niggers would ruin him.

"He wuz allers gwi' co'tin, but he never did. He say de plantation want a mistis an' somebody ter look arter de two boys; but he couldn' go co'tin' in summer, 'kase he had ter go to de Springs; an' in de fall, wid de sellin' uv de craps, an' de fallowin' fer wheat, an' de 'lection, he didn' have no time; an' in de winter he had de rheumertiz; an' he 'low dat co'tin' never did 'gree wid him in de spring uv de year. Miss Patty Corbin she wait fer him fo'teen year, an' den she sen' him word 'twuz den er never. Ole marse he sen her back word 'twuz never, 'kase he didn't like ter be hurried in he 'rangements. So he didn' never got married; an' when he die he jes' leave all he property ter be 'vided out 'tween Marse Jack an' Marse Page, 'cep he lef' Marse Page he silver watch. Ole marse tho't a sight er dat watch. He wouldn' never let no watchmaker tech it, fer he feerd he mought spile it; an' when it got wrong he jes' take a feather an' some lard an' grease it hisse'f, an' den 'twuz all right ag'in.

"Well, all de black folks like Marse Page de bes', an' all on 'em want ter 'long ter him. Marse Jack he mighty quarrelsome an' 'sputifyin' 'bout things, an' he say he want Tubal de fiddler. Tubal he fall down on he knees 'fo' Marse Page an' baig dat Marse Page take him; but Marse Page he had done ask fer Mam' Betsy--dat wuz de mammy uv bofe de boys--an' Marse Jack say he 'titled ter Tubal. Marse Page he offer ter buy Tubal right outen; but Marse Jack say no, Tubal wuz de bes' fiddler in de county, an' _he_ want him. So Tubal had ter go wid Marse Jack; but Tubal he say to we-all, mighty solemn like: 'Marse Jack think he gwi' git a fust-class fiddler. I sw'ar I ain' never gwi' draw dat bow ez long ez I is Marse Jack's nigger. I done sw'ar it, an' I done make a cross in de ashes 'fo' I sw'ar.'

"Naix thing we heah, Marse Jack he gwi' move ter de upper country, whar dey doan' have no oshters er crabs er nuttin' fer ter eat--an' sho' 'nuff 'twuz so.

"I never will furgit de day dey all lef'. Dey wuz wagons fur all de women an' de chillen an' de sick folks an' de ole folks, an' de men dey walk. Tubal wuz d'yar on de jinny mule, but he didn' have no fiddle. Marse Page come ter tell 'em good-by. De black folks cry an' pray an' sing, same like 'twuz a baptizin', 'twell Marse Page he tooken out he white hankercher an' he cry too. Tubal he hol' on ter Marse Page, an' ax Gord ter bless him, an' ax him if he 'member when dey useter go fishin' toge'er, an' Marse Page t'yar he Sunday jacket, so Mam' Betsy have ter give it ter Tubal--he allus like brass buttons--an' Marse Page tell him he ain' never gwi' furgit he faithful Tubal, an' lars' thing Tubal say ter we-all er-cryin' wuz, 'I ain' gwi' tech dat fiddle, I ain' gwi' tech dat bow, ez long ez I b'long ter Marse Jack Boswell.' An' he didn'.

"De years an' de years pass on. We done hear dat Marse Jack he try ter make Tubal play when he got him up de country, but Tubal he doan' play. Marse Jack den put him in de corn fiel', an' Tubal he han's jes' es sof' ez Marse Jack's hisse'f; he have ter hoe de row, but he doan' play de fiddle. Marse Jack he tell him ef he will play de fiddle he kin hire out ter play at de parties, an' make a heap uv money. Tubal he 'low steadfas' he ain' never gwi' play no mo'. But de niggers say dat in de night-time Tubal he git up an' go 'way in de woods, whar he had done hide de fiddle, an' he play twell mos' mornin'. De folks gwi' 'long thu' de woods moonlight nights hear de soun's floatin' by, an' dey git skeered an' run, an' say 'tis evils 'broad; but nobody never tole Marse Jack. He an' Marse Page didn' have nuttin' 'tall ter do wid each ur'r arter dey fell out 'bout Tubal. Bofe on 'em got married, an' Marse Page wife die soon, an' lef' him er little gal. She growed up mighty pretty, wid gray eyes, sorter like partridge eyes, an' she wuz slim an' slight. Marse Page he live on at de Shelter, but he warn't like ole marse. He wuz sof' spoken, an' he read books, an he never talk 'bout goin' co'tin' no mo', an' he wuz de best marster in de county. He wuz mighty fond o' Miss Letty, an' useter say, 'Dat little gray-eyed gal _she_ got er sperrit.'

"Well, arter a while de war broke out at de Norf, an' Marse Page he raise a cump'ny an' went ter de war. He sont Miss Letty off ter school, an' de niggers jes' stay on de plantation an' work under de overseer. But it didn't seem like nuttin' prosper no mo'. De craps warn' no 'count--de wheat allers had de rus' an' de corn warn' nuttin' but nubbins, an' de line fence cotch fire an' bu'n up mos' all de fencin' on de place, an' a storm come an' to' down mo'n half de house; an' when Marse Page an' Miss Letty come back arter de war, de niggers wuz free, an't' wasn' nuttin lef' but de lan'. But Marse Page wuz a gent'mun, an' he couldn' live no way 'cep' de quality way, an' co'se he had ter borry money fer ter do it; 'sides dat, he had done los' he right arm in de war. So fer a year er two things wuz putty much like dey wuz 'fo' de war; Miss Letty had her piany an' her hoss, an' marse he cigars an' he silk stockin's an' sech.

"One de fust things dat happen arter de war wuz one day when Marse Page wuz settin' on de po'ch in ole marse' cheer. He look up, an' d'yar, stan'in' on de gravel parf, wuz a ole man on a jinny mule, an' he had er fiddle under he arm, an' widout sayin' er word he 'gin ter tune up dat fiddle, an' he start ter play 'Kiss me sweetly.' Marse Page he sot right still, an' de tears rain down he face, an' den de nigger man he hop off'n de jinny mule, an' he come up de steps, an' he say, 'Marse Page, I is a free man now, an' I come fer ter be yo' nigger oncet mo'.'

"Marse Page he call out fer Miss Letty, an' she come flyin', an' fo' her par could say a word she say, 'Why, it's Uncle Tubal.' She ain't never seen Tubal, but she hearn 'bout him; and den he kiss her little han', an' Marse Page had he liquor case fotch out, an' he an' Tubal drink ter ole times, an' Tubal he f'yar make de fiddle talk. Arterward Tubal he go right back in he ole house he had lived in ole marse' time. Tubal didn't have no wife er chillen; he say he fiddle were all de wife he want; an' he go back ter de ole ways. No mo' hoein' an' wukkin' for Tubal; he jes' sot an' play de fiddle all day.

"Dis heah way went on fer a while, an' mout er gone on twell now, but all de po' white trash dat Marse Page had intrusted wid de mortgage on de Shelter 'speck him ter pay de money back, an' co'se Marse Page didn't have it; ef he had had it, he wouldn' er borried de money nohow. An', ef you will b'lieve dis nigger, dem low-down white folks make Marse Page pay all he debts fur ez he could, an' de place wuz sol', an' de black folks went off, an' Marse Page an' Miss Letty had ter go an' live in de overseer's house. It didn't have but fo' rooms. Tubal he went wid 'em, an' he wuk de bes' he kin, but Tubal warn' no wukker, natchel. Marse Page couldn' do nuttin', 'kase he didn't have but one arm, an' bimeby times got wuss an' wusser, an' hard an' harder, an' Miss Letty--she had a fine eddication--she had ter go 'way an' teach school, an' leave Tubal ter take keer uv Marse Page.

"Now Tubal he useter hoe in de g'yardin an' keep things goin', but de onlies' way he could git money wuz by fiddlin'. Marse Page he do widout all he could, but he wuz er gent'mun, an' he couldn' do widout much, an' Miss Letty she sent him all she make. An' den one night he wuz tooken sick an' had a stroke of paradise. He couldn' move, an' he couldn' hardly talk, but he call Tubal ter de baidside, an' he say, 'Remember, boy, not a word of this to your Miss Letty.' You see, Marse Page didn' have no right arm, an' he couldn' wrote wid he lef', an' Tubal had 'rections fum Miss Letty dat ev'y week he wuz ter git somebody ter write ter her an' tell her 'bout Marse Page, an' she keep on sen'in' him her money, but dat wouldn' been 'nough arter Marse Page got he stroke of paradise, ef it hadn' been fer Tubal's fiddlin'. Now, in dem times, dey wuz Yankees 'bout. Dey wuz two or three cump'nies dat camp out at de river landin', an' Tubal useter go over ter de camp an' play fer 'em, an' come back wid er greenback in he pocket. Marse Page by dat time didn' know nuttin' hardly. He jes' lay d'yar an' suffer an' groan. Out at de camp dey wuz a orficer--a cap'n--dat wuz mighty gin'rous ter Tubal, an' Tubal ax him ef he write a letter fer him ter Miss Letty. De cap'n 'gree, an' ev'y week Tubal go over an' git dat cap'n ter write. He warn' so ole, an' he were a gent'mun as wuz a gent'mun, ef he didn' have no niggers 'fo' de war, an' had ter have low-down white folks ter black he boots an' bresh he close. All de time Tubal wuz tellin' de cap'n what ter write, de cap'n wuz larfin' ter hisse'f, an' pres'ny he look kinder pitiful. Tubal's letters wuz mighty cur'us. Fust he tell de cap'n ter write dat all de quality in de county come ev'y day ter 'quire arter Marse Page. 'Twuz a lie, an' Tubal say so. 'Co'se dat's a lie, cap'n,' he say. 'Seem like de quality folks has clean forgot how Marse Page useter live at de Shelter 'fo' de war, wid thirty hosses in de stalls, an' cum'p'ny all de time, an' champagne like water outen de spring. But I c'yarn let Miss Letty know dat.' Den he tell him ter wrote Marse Page wuz so spry, an' he so intrusted in her letters, an' didn' want no mo' uv her money; an' ev'ybody know Marse Page 'ain' been able ter read hardly sence Miss Letty went away. De cap'n wroten it all, an' he gin Tubal a greenback mos' ev'y time he see him, an' sen' Marse Page some brandy like he been useter, an' tell Tubal ef he want nuttin' ter come ter him.

"One night de cap'n wuz settin' in he tent readin', an' Tubal sneak in, lookin' sorter queer. He say in a whisper: 'Cap'n, Marse Page is 'mos' gone. He callin' fer Miss Letty, an' you mus' wrote Miss Letty fer me, an' tell her, fer Gord A'mighty's sake, ter come home ez quick ez she kin.' De cap'n he wroten it right away, an' he tole her all 'bout de boats, an' how she wuz ter make corrections wid de k'yars, an' could git here by Sad'day. An' Tubal he never lef' Marse Page night er day.

"Well, dat naix Friday night, when de boat stop at de landin', off step Miss Letty: she had done make de corrections, an' got here 'fo' dey speck her. 'Twarn't nobody at de wharf ter meet her, but de cap'n wuz d'yar wid he orderly, an' when he see Miss Letty so pale an' pretty an' distrussful, he went up to her an' injuced hisse'f, an' ax ef he could be uv any resistance ter her. Miss Letty she toss her hade, an' look him all over wid dem gray eyes o' hern; she didn't like no sort o' Yankees, an' he had he uniform on; but he was so polite an' respectious, an' he hol' he cap in he han' all de time, dat pres'ny Miss Letty kinder softened. An' when he tole her he had done wroten de letters for Tubal, an' he hope she doan' fin' her father ez bad ez she 'spected ter fin' him, Miss Letty jes' broke down, an' cry fit ter break her heart. De cap'n tu'n away, an' didn' notice her twell she had got th'u' cryin', an' den he come back an' bow like a gent'mun, an' tole her he mus' take keer on her home, dat he horse 'ain' never had de honor uv kyar'in' a lady, but he know she ain' 'feerd, and kin ride on he army saddle. Den Miss Letty smile a little bit, an' de orderly--mighty po' white trash he were--brung up de hosses, an' de cap'n swung Miss Letty on he own hoss--a scrimptious bay hoss with black mane an' tail--an' de hoss fret a little bit; but Miss Letty she sot him, an' de cap'n he smile, an' say she kin ride like a soldier. Den he got on de orderly hoss, an' off dey went.

"'Twuz fo' miles ter de overseer's house, an' when de cap'n lef' her at de do', he tell her de camp warn' mo'n harf mile away, an' ef she want any help, he hope she would treat 'em like frien's 'stid uv enemies, an' Miss Letty she promise she would.

"Marse Page didn't live a week arter Miss Letty got d'yar. She found out dat de quality folks had sorter neglec' him, an' she was so proud and haughtical she wouldn' sen' fer none on 'em; an' Tubal say he doan' know what she would er done ef it hadn't been fur de cap'n. Co'se, arter Marse Page done dade, all de folks pay him deir respec's, an' heap on 'em come ter see ef dey couldn' do nuttin' fer him--arter he wuz laid out. But Miss Letty say no, she thank 'em; dey couldn' do nuttin' 'tall. De funeral wuz mons'ous big. Miss Letty she walk by herse'f 'hine de coffin, an' Tubal he walk right 'hine Miss Letty. De cap'n wuz d'yar too.

"Miss Letty, arter de buryin', she settle down quiet at de overseer's house wid a po' relation dat come f'um somewhar, an' fur two or three weeks she didn' do nuttin' but set an' look at de fire an' go ev'y evenin' an' stan' by Marse Page grave. Den she 'gin ter ax Tubal 'bout things, an' Tubal tole her how kin' de cap'n had been, an' sen' Marse Page brandy an' things, an' come ev'y day ter see ef he couldn' do sumpin' fer him--an' all dis heah 'fo' Marse Page wuz laid out--an' how he had done see 'bout de coffin, an' had tole Tubal what wuz fitten ter do. De cap'n didn' call ter see her, but ev'y day er two he sen' de orderly ter ax how she do, wid de cap'n's compliments, an' sometimes he sen' her er basket er grapes or er bokay. Miss Letty she wroten him er little note an' ax him ter come an' receive her thanks in pusson, an' he come. Tubal say it discomfuse him ter have Miss Letty seein' cump'ny in dat d'yar ole overseer's house, but she wuz fust quality, jes' de same ez ef she wuz at de Shelter in de ole time. Naix day Miss Patty Corbin, dat wait fo'teen year ter git ole marse, come in her gre't big kerridge to quile wid Miss Letty fer receivin' Yankee orficers.

"'De bes' people in de county doan' countenance it,' she say.

"'Very well,' answer Miss Letty, wid her cheeks afire, 'it seems they didn't countenance my poor father much after he left the Shelter, but this Yankee orficer _he_ countenance my father when he was ill an' poor an' want frien's--and, Miss Patty,' she say wid her eyes blazin', 'it's a subject I won't have mentioned to me again--please understand--an' I wish you good-morning.' Miss Patty she flounce out ter her gre't big kerridge in a huff, an' Miss Letty she walk back inter de overseer's house like it wuz a palace, an' she wuz a queen.

"Tubal he meet de cap'n on de road dat very day, an' tole him de whole contention. De cap'n grin when Tubal tole him de way Miss Letty sen' Miss Patty off, same like she wuz shoot out ov a gun.

"Naix Sunday, at chu'ch, Miss Letty see de cap'n comin' in jes' ez she wuz; an' she wait fer him, an' smile, an' ax him inter her pew, an' let him walk up de aisle 'longside o' her. Dey sut'ny wuz a han'some couple--she look so pretty in her black frock, an' he wuz jes' ez straight as a Injun.

"Arter chu'ch, 'stid o' folks stoppin' ter speak wid Miss Letty, dey jes' went by her wid a nod an' a scowl. Miss Letty she had a sperrit, ez Marse Page say; she smile an' keep on talkin' wid de cap'n, an' let him walk home wid her. Tubal he had done gone in de woods ter play de fiddle--'kase dat sinner acshilly play de fiddle Sunday same ez week days--he seen 'em walkin' 'long home, an' he see de cap'n when he tooken Miss Letty han' an' say, 'Can you bear that treatment fer me?' An' Miss Letty she say, 'Yes, and a great deal more.' Ef you will believe dis nigger, Miss Letty she marry dat cap'n! She did, fer a fac'! She married him, sartin an' sho! She marry him 'fo' de summer wuz out. Dey went away, an' dey want ter take Tubal wid 'em, but Tubal he say naw, he c'yarn leave Marse Page all by hisse'f in de graveyard, an' ef he could jes' live on at de overseer's house, an' had he fiddle an' sumpin' ter eat, he wus all right. Miss Letty fix fer him ter stay, an' de' wuz a little g'yarden patch fer him; but Tubal he warn' never no 'count ter wuk; he wuz too much uv a artis', de cap'n say. So arter dey wuz married an' gone, Tubal useter take he fiddle an' go an' set in de sun by Marse Page grave, an' play ter him, an' dat nigger had de s'prisin' owdaciousness ter play hymn tunes on de fiddle, like 'Roll, Jordan, roll,' an' 'Dem Golden Slippers.' Dem wuz fer hisse'f, he say, but de reels an' jigs wuz fer Marse Page, 'kase he allers like dat sort o' music. An' it seem ter me like Tubal play mo' like de birds ev'y day; when he play a reel, it wuz like de win' sweepin' ober de wheat fiel', er de water in de mill-race po'in' ober de dam. Dat was in de fall, but todes winter Tubal cotch de rheumatiz, an' he couldn't git outen de house, an' he finger-j'ints got kinder rusty, an' he couldn' play no mo'. It sut'ny wuz pitiful ter see him settin' wid de fiddle on he knee an' he c'yarn play it. He wuz mighty po'ly, an' he keep on sayin' he ain' gwi' live long. When de spring come he got outen de house when it was sunshiny, an' he useter creep wid he fiddle ter de graveyard, but he couldn' hardly walk. An' one day we had done miss him, but it wuz sunshiny, so we knowed he was somewhar 'bout dat graveyard; we-all went ter look fer him, an' d'yar, layin' on Marse Page grave, wuz Tubal wid he fiddle. He wuz done dade.

"He had ax us 'fo' dat ter bury him an' de fiddle close by Marse Page, 'kase Miss Letty had promise him he could be laid in de white folks' buryin' groun', an' he wuz laid right d'yar. He look mighty natchel in de coffin wid he fiddle an' he bow by him. So we-all buried Tubal, an' I 'ain' never see sech a fiddler sence."

PRISCILLA.

Priscilla's beauty was of that shadowy and spiritual kind that it took a good while to find out that she was a beauty at all. Certainly Priscilla's sisters, the Misses Mildmay, had sublime faith in Priscilla's charms; but the poor girl herself had spent so much of her twenty-five years of life trying to conform to the standard of behavior inculcated in the Misses Mildmay's boarding and day school for young ladies and little girls that it had robbed her of that delicious and ingenuous vanity which is the glorious inheritance of pretty young things of her gender. The Misses Mildmay lived in an imposing four-story brick mansion in a street of the sternest respectability; there was not a suspicion of the shop in the stately front door, and the heavily draped windows bore no advertising sign. The tall man-servant who opened the door was loftily oblivious to the pupils who sneaked in by the garden way. The Misses Mildmay had made money in their school--and it was all for Priscilla. Had this youngest birdling in the dove-cote been like her elder sisters, nothing could have been better contrived than the scheme of happiness proposed to her. But unfortunately Priscilla was no more a Mildmay than she was a Montmorency or a Condé. It is true that she conformed outwardly to the Mildmay model, but Nature's original Priscilla was a merry, fiery young creature with peachy cheeks and a perpetual smile and a good appetite. All these things, however, were kept in abeyance--particularly her color and her appetite. Had that dignified footman been cut up into juicy chops for Priscilla's breakfast, and that mahogany door been made into rich soups for Priscilla's dinner, she would no doubt have lost some of that pretty pallor, that pathetic look out of her dark eyes. But the income of the Misses Mildmay did not admit of the footman and the mahogany door and the juicy chops and rich soups too, so they skimped on the dinners, skimped on the amusements, skimped on all those vanities that had never had any charms for them, but which Mother Nature, who is obstinate as well as perverse, had meant for the younger sister.

The Mildmay religion was necessarily of a well-bred and repressive type; but Priscilla was given to getting up early and walking long distances to a church in East Harrowby, where not one single person could be found who might be called "in society" except Priscilla herself. The clergyman, it is true, was a gentleman, but he was said to be so cold, so stern, so unsocial, that he strongly repelled his own class. There was, however, a reason for the Rev. Mr. Thorburn's indifference to general society. He had met with the most awful of domestic calamities. The wife whom he loved had lost her mind, and was then in a private asylum. The only shifting of his burden that the stern Mr. Thorburn showed was, he had given up the charge which he had held for ten years, and where his happy married life had been spent, and had taken a very small and pitifully poor church in East Harrowby. His congregation was made up entirely of working people, to Mr. Thorburn's intense satisfaction. He had the spirit of an apostle, but he was handicapped by his temperament and by the traditions of his class. He could not be persistent, or aggressive, or personally solicitous about the highly educated, moral, and well-bred persons who made up his first congregation. He desired earnestly and even fiercely to wake them up to a spiritual life, but all of them, pastor as well as people, were too well bred for that sort of intimate discussion to be forced between them. He found, after some years' experience, that they were willing to let him look after their morals, but they proposed to look after their spiritual affairs themselves--which is one of the commonest and queerest developments of modern religious thought.

In the course of time, Thorburn grew weary of trying to spiritualize a congregation of people who were so well off in this world that they regarded their probable transposition to heaven with great distaste. He sickened of being restricted in his spiritual efforts to emotional women and priggish boys and girls. Religion, he felt, was an affair for men--but of the few men communicants in the church, every one of them would have instantly withdrawn his subscription and quitted the church had the clergyman showed any undue solicitude about his soul. And if he had ventured to speak of their sins, in any except the most general way, the bishop would have come down upon him. So this zealous man, so cruelly misplaced, found his fashionable congregation and handsome salary utterly unendurable after that frightful and heart-breaking tragedy in his life. He was glad enough for the chance to preach to a congregation of decent brick makers, such as made up most of the population of East Harrowby, and who did not find this world so pleasant that they could not grasp the idea of a better one.

Dr. Sunbury, the rector of the handsome stone church in West Harrowby, was a good man, but he would have cut a poor figure as an apostle alongside of that independent citizen, Paul of Tarsus, or Peter the fisherman. The doctor had the kindest heart, though, and the most liberal mind in West Harrowby, and having early had a safe and easy path to heaven pointed out to him, he had walked along it for forty years, never doubting that he would get there in the end. It is true that the spectacle of Mr. Thorburn, going night and day among his poor parishioners, being doctor, nurse, adviser, everything to them, sometimes gave the excellent old doctor a qualm, but he had sense enough to see that, even if he wished to follow the same life as the Rev. Mr. Thorburn, he couldn't do it. There were no sick, poor, ignorant people in the well-bred, well-fed congregation that listened to Dr. Sunbury's mild and strictly general exhortations.

Priscilla Mildmay alone of all the doctor's flock went after the new parson at East Harrowby and his shabby, uncomfortable church. But Priscilla always had an odd way with her, so her elder sisters gently lamented. For example, instead of reading the religious flapdoodle with which they were quite satisfied, Priscilla would devour her Thomas à Kempis as if all of truth was to be found therein, and declared she could not read anything after that except the four Gospels. The Misses Mildmay had not failed to report Priscilla's iniquity to Dr. Sunbury, but they got cold comfort.

"Let the girl alone," he said. "Thorburn's a better preacher than I am, and, God knows, he is a better man" (the doctor possessed, without knowing it, one of the greatest Christian' virtues--humility) "and don't bother her. She is right. I'd go to hear Thorburn myself if I didn't have to preach." The two clergymen were upon the most friendly terms, although so widely apart in every respect but that of mutual good-will. The only house in West Harrowby that Thorburn visited was Dr. Sunbury's and the old doctor trudged over to East Harrowby sometimes, to smoke a pipe of peace in Thorburn's dingy lodgings. Dr. Sunbury hated walking, but he could not find it in his conscience to drive over to that woe-begone community in his snug brougham--all of which the recording angel put down in his favor.

Priscilla's face had not escaped Thorburn's notice. He had keen eyes, and he saw everything. He saw Priscilla with wonder. Women, as a rule, did not flock to his church. They said they found his sermons cold. Men, and some of them none of the best, chiefly made up his audiences. It was not hard anywhere to observe Priscilla's snow-drop face in her little black bonnet, with her eager, beseeching eyes. After a while Mr. Thorburn began to feel their mesmeric influence, as Dr. Sunbury had done ever since she was fifteen. He began to watch for her, to preach at her, to feel that she understood him--a very comfortable thing for a public speaker. Of course he knew who Miss Priscilla Mildmay was--"Very nice, but not the equal of the elder Misses Mildmay," he usually heard--and sometimes they had met at Dr. Sunbury's. As Mr. Thorburn was naturally a silent man, and Priscilla lacked courage in a drawing-room, they scarcely exchanged half a dozen words. It came about, though, as these things will, that in the course of his parish work he came upon Priscilla--Priscilla teaching a class of ragged boys their lessons, after having taught the most stylish young ladies in West Harrowby the most elegant branches of a polite education. Some way, all the restraint they had felt in Dr. Sunbury's drawing-room melted away in the little bare school room. There Priscilla reigned supreme, calmly confident under Mr. Thorburn's searching gaze. She had a peculiar knack of teaching. Her gentle, "Now, please, boys," had the same effect as Mr. Thorburn's stern, "See, you fellows, behave yourselves." Mr. Thorburn watched with admiration the tact with which she managed her somewhat unruly crowd.

Of course all this teaching did not go on with the unqualified approbation of the Misses Mildmay. Priscilla showed a phenomenal determination about it, and being upheld by Dr. Sunbury, who in some way always encouraged her vagaries, the Misses Mildmay, although they might look coldly on it, could not forbid it.

It did not take much to violently excite West Harrowby; and therefore when the Harrowby Union-Palladium published one morning, with a big display head that covered half the first page of the paper, the burning of the Northern Lunatic Asylum, a certain circumstance connected therewith gave West Harrowby something to talk about for a week. Five inmates of the women's ward were missing, and among them was Mrs. Eleanor Thorburn. Five bodies, charred beyond recognition, were found in the ruins. Some days after a notice appeared in the obituary column of the Union-Palladium: "Suddenly, on the 17th of February, Mrs. Eleanor Thorburn, wife of the Reverend Edmund Thorburn, of East Harrowby." That was all.

Nobody--not the most censorious--could accuse Mr. Thorburn of not paying scrupulous respect to his wife's memory. Yet it made but little outward difference in his life. For two or three Sundays he was absent from his pulpit, and when he reappeared he wore a band of crape upon his hat.

So things went on until nearly two years had slipped past. One spring afternoon Dr. Sunbury, with his particular chum and crony, Dr. Forman, the great light of the medical profession in and about Harrowby, was enjoying a quiet saunter through the familiar shady street. They had wrestled in argument so often, and practiced in company so much, that Dr. Sunbury had become a pretty good doctor of medicine, and Dr. Forman was no mean proficient in theology. Right in the midst of a friendly-fierce wrangle on the subject of ecclesiastical history, Dr. Forman suddenly remarked, "That's going to be a match."

Dr. Sunbury glanced up, and saw Mr. Thorburn, as he met Priscilla Mildmay, stop, smile, speak a few words, and, lifting his hat, go upon his way.

"Bless my soul!" almost shouted Dr. Sunbury, stopping short and gazing at Dr. Forman's immovable face.

"Why not?" said the doctor testily. "I see them together half a dozen times a week."

Dr. Sunbury was at heart an inveterate matchmaker, as all truly benevolent old persons are apt to be, and as soon as he allowed his imagination to feast upon the idea of a match between Thorburn and Priscilla, its manifest fitness impressed itself so upon him that he would fain have got out a license, gone to them, and commanded them to stand up and be married immediately. He did, however, firmly resolve to give Thorburn a hint; but giving Thorburn hints was always a matter of more or less difficulty with everybody. At last, however, the opportunity came, and Dr. Sunbury seized it courageously. He had been spending the evening with Mr. Thorburn at his lodgings, and the other clergyman happening to mention, as Dr. Sunbury was taking his leave, that he thought of getting lodgings elsewhere, Dr. Sunbury remarked quite naturally that he "had heard something regarding Mr. Thorburn and Miss Priscilla Mildmay which perhaps accounted for the proposed change." They were standing at Mr. Thorburn's door, and by the bright moonlight Dr. Sunbury saw the dark flush which overspread Mr. Thorburn's somewhat saturnine face.

"I--I assure you--" he began; and then, after a pause, "I am too old."

"Nonsense!" replied Dr. Sunbury. "Priscilla is nearly twenty-six" (ah! doctor, you know she was only twenty-five month before last), "and you are--let me see--thirty-seven."

"Thirty-nine," conscientiously said Mr. Thorburn.

"Well, thirty-nine. You are enough man of the world to see that age interposes no obstacle in the case. However, I shall say no more. Good-night."

"If I hadn't been going just then, I don't think I could have said it," confidentially remarked Dr. Sunbury to Dr. Forman.

The little seed that Dr. Sunbury had planted in Mr. Thorburn's mind grew, and waxed to be a great tree. But all the time he looked upon it as impossible. Priscilla was but a child, and he was a man grown old in sorrow, in suffering, and labor. No, it could never be. And having come to the conclusion that he was in no danger whatever, Mr. Thorburn fared just as such presumptuous Samsons always do. He met Priscilla under the most adverse circumstances, running home from a shower, and in a manner the most unexpected to himself, proposed to her just as they came in front of the West Harrowby savings-bank, which was also the post-office and the principal apothecary's shop. Priscilla's behavior was of a piece with his own. The idea had never been presented to her mind before, and it was a matter that required the utmost circumspection in deciding, and yet by the time she reached her own door she had accepted Mr. Thorburn, the rain meanwhile from his umbrella trickling in little rivers down her back. There was neither time nor opportunity for love-making in the midst of a pouring shower, upon the pavement in front of the Mildmay mansion, so Mr. Thorburn could only take her little cold hand and say, "God bless you, God bless you, my Priscilla!"

In due course of time the wedding--a very quiet one--came off, and Mr. and Mrs. Thorburn were settled in a modest rectory in East Harrowby. The Misses Mildmay had suggested--indeed, urged--that Mr. Thorburn should establish his rectory in the more fashionable precinct of West Harrowby, but Mr. Thorburn demurred, on the ground of its being a clergyman's duty to live in his parish.

They were as happy as the day was long. Priscilla, under the new influence of happiness and good roast beef and a daily pint of porter, grew rosy, and blossomed out into a regular beauty, and Mr. Thorburn's face lost that painful expression it had been wont to wear when he strode through the streets on his parish work. And time went by so fast--so fast; they had been married nearly three years, when they felt as if their honey-moon was just beginning.

It was getting toward dusk one misty November afternoon when Priscilla went tripping past Dr. Forman's house, which stood on the opposite side of the street. The moisture from the over-hanging branches of the elm trees was dripping upon her, and her boots were quite soaked through. Across the way the doctor was just stepping out of his buggy, and she stopped and debated whether she should not go over and ask him to drive her a quarter of a mile further down the road to the rectory. As she stood hesitating, a woman approached her out of the mist, and spoke.

"May I inquire," she said, "the way to the house of the Rev. Mr. Thorburn?"

She was perhaps forty, and had once been pretty. Even now a certain pathetic charm attached to her, and the voice and accent were of that cultivated kind which established her title to be called a lady, in spite of the extreme plainness of her attire.

Her hair, which was a beautiful auburn, curled over her forehead in little natural rings, and her eyes were strangely bright. She looked as if she had just recovered from illness, and was not physically strong, but there was a look of tremulous happiness in her face. When she said "the Rev. Mr. Thorburn," her voice was musically lowered, and her gray eyes became radiant. Priscilla took all this in at a glance. She was some woman whom Thorburn had befriended, and who had come to him to lay down her load of gratitude at his feet.

"Yes," said Priscilla, with ready politeness; "just down the road, the first house to the left. You will have to wait an hour or two, perhaps, though, for Mr. Thorburn. He is seldom in before half past-six. I am Mrs. Thorburn, you see," she said, smiling.

The stranger looked at her for a moment with a kind of wide-eyed horror, and, throwing her arms up in the air, fell prone on the ground as if she had received a pistol shot through the heart.

Priscilla had never been brought face to face with any startling emergencies during her quiet life. She stood for a moment frozen with terror, and then ran like a deer across to where Dr. Forman stood giving some directions to his man.

"Oh, doctor, come! run as fast as you can." She pointed to the prostrate figure lying in the muddy road. Dr. Forman gave one glance, and started at a smart pace, Priscilla keeping up with him, and telling him breathlessly what had occurred. The doctor bent down, turned the unfortunate woman over on her back, and said two words, "Dead faint."

"Can't I do something?" said Priscilla, hovering near.

"Yes. Go and tell Sam to come here at once, and then go home yourself. You'll have another touch of rheumatism if you go out in this weather. I shall speak to Thorburn about it."

The doctor was a man of authority; so Priscilla, after sending Sam over, and returning only to be sharply ordered about her business, went home. Mr. Thorburn was later than usual that night. A strike was threatened among the brick makers, and they had said they would treat with him and with no one else. He was troubled and harassed--and, contrary to the custom of some women in like circumstances, Priscilla did not choose grewsome stories, like strange women fainting in the street, to entertain him--so nothing was said of the somewhat tragic occurrence of the afternoon. Next morning he was off bright and early, Priscilla making no mention of her aching joints. Before night the doctor's promised touch of rheumatism had set in. Priscilla made light of it, but agreed to send for Dr. Forman, and insisted that Thorburn should attend to the business of averting the strike. Instead of coming himself, young Dr. Curtis, Dr. Forman's assistant, came. Dr. Forman had a very ill patient. Mrs. Thorburn inquired eagerly about the woman who had dropped in the street. Dr. Curtis had heard Dr. Forman say something about it, but supposed it was all right, as he had heard nothing further on the subject. Mrs. Thorburn would be all right too if she would stay in the house in bad weather, and take care of herself.

The incident made no very particular impression on Priscilla. But on the night after it had happened, Dr. Sunbury got a very pressing message from Dr. Forman. He went at once to the doctor's house, picking his way through the dark November night; and Dr. Forman opened the door himself, and led the way into his little back office, where he told his visitor of the patient he had found in the street, and who at that moment lay up-stairs in the doctor's spare bedroom, with the doctor's housekeeper in attendance on her.

"And--she--is--" Dr. Forman hesitated. A strange pallor was upon his homely, good-natured face, and his voice was tremulous. He took a moment or two to recover himself, and then burst out: "She is--the first wife of Mr. Thorburn."

Dr. Sunbury rose from his chair and fell back in it again. He raised his hand as if in denunciation. "May God--"

"Wait. He is as guiltless as you are." Dr. Forman paused a minute or two, and then took up the thread of his discourse where he had left off describing his sending Priscilla Thorburn home. "I brought her, with my man's help, into the house, and had her put in bed. It was plainly nothing but a faint; but she went from one fainting spell into another, and when I had finally brought her round, the fainting spell changed into convulsions. For hours I worked with her. At last I stopped them, and got her under the influence of an opiate. I was tired myself, and went to bed to get a few hours' sleep, leaving word for Curtis to be called. In the middle of the night I was waked by Jane standing by my bedside, looking frightened out of her wits. 'Do, pray, Dr. Forman, come to the strange lady.' When I got to the room she was lying in the bed, weak, but perfectly conscious. She intimated to me that she wished to say something to me privately. Of course I tried to induce her to put it off, but she was determined.

"I saw that she was no ordinary woman--she had been beautiful--and she was still comely. And she had that air of melancholy command that those who are in the crisis of tremendous misfortunes only have. So I sent Jane out of the room. Then she said, in the calmest possible way, 'Doctor, I am the first wife of Edmund Thorburn.' I was incredulous, and thought her crazy, the more so that the next thing she told was that she had been for the last six years in a lunatic asylum. But when she told me her story I saw that she was at that moment as sane as I was. And such a story!" Dr. Forman, a stolid man usually, took out his handkerchief and buried his face in it, and an occasional sob escaped from him. Dr. Sunbury put his hand to his eyes, as the doctor gasped out at intervals. "They were so happy! She had given up everything to marry him, and wanted him to give up his parish because it did not suit him, and to take some such charge as East Harrowby, and to share his poverty with him--she, delicately nurtured and finely bred. And then came the terrible illness, and a still more terrible blank; and then, after years which are as nothing in her mind, a return, an awakening, a resurrection to life and the most perfect felicity, so she thought--poor thing, poor thing!--and when she got here, to East Harrowby, she was so overcome with the happiness in store for them, that she felt her heart would burst if she saw him too suddenly--she wandered about, waiting until dusk to go to his house, and to throw herself in her husband's arms--"

Dr. Forman paused for a long time. Then presently recovering himself, he suddenly fell into his calm, professional tone.