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Charles ®33. Cfjesntttt.
THE CONJURE WOMAN. i6mo, $1.25.
THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH. Illustrated. Crown
8vo, $1.50.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
Boston and New York.





"THIS IS THE WOMAN, AND I AM THE MAN" (page 24)








THE WIFE OF HIS
YOUTH
AND OTHER STORIES OF
THE COLOR LINE
BY
CHARLES W. CHESNUTT
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CLYDE 0. DE LAND
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
Cambribge
1901


COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY CHARLES W. CHESNUTT
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


CONTENTS
The Wife of his Youth
Her Virginia Mammy .
The Sheriff's Children .
A Matter of Principle
Cicely's Dream
The Passing of Grandison
Uncle Wellington's Wives
The Bouquet.
The Web of Circumstance


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGB
" This is the woman, and I am the man " (page
24) Frontispiece
"We'll bu's' the do' open" .... 76
Perhaps the house had been robbed . . . 258
"For white people only. Others please keep
out " . . 288





THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH
I
Mr. Ryder was going to give a ball.
There were several reasons why this was an
opportune time for such an event.
Mr. Ryder might aptly be called the dean
of the Blue Veins. The original Blue Veins
were a little society of colored persons organ¬
ized in a certain Northern city shortly after
the war. Its purpose was to establish and
maintain correct social standards among a
people whose social condition presented almost
unlimited room for improvement. By acci¬
dent, combined perhaps with some natural
affinity, the society consisted of individuals
who were, generally speaking, more white than
black. Some envious outsider made the sug¬
gestion that no one was eligible for member¬
ship who was not white enough to show blue
veins. The suggestion was readily adopted
by those who were not of the favored few,


2
THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH
and since that time the society, though pos¬
sessing a longer and more pretentious name,
had been known far and wide as the " Blue
Vein Society," and its members as the " Blue
Veins."
The Blue Veins did not allow that any such
requirement existed for admission to their cir¬
cle, but, on the contrary, declared that char¬
acter and culture were the only things con¬
sidered ; and that if most of their members
were light-colored, it was because such persons,
as a rule, had had better opportunities to
qualify themselves for membership. Opinions
differed, too, as to the usefulness of the so¬
ciety. There were those who had been known
to assail it violently as a glaring example of
the very prejudice from which the colored race
had suffered most; and later, when such
critics had succeeded in getting on the inside,
they had been heard to maintain with zeal
and earnestness that the society was a life¬
boat, an anchor, a bulwark and a shield, — a
pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night, to
guide their people through the social wilder¬
ness. Another alleged prerequisite for Blue
Vein membership was that of free birth ; and
while there was really no such requirement, it


THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH 3
is doubtless true that very few of the members
would have been unable to meet it if there
had been. If there were one or two of the
older members who had come up from the
South and from slavery, their history presented
enough romantic circumstances to rob their
servile origin of its grosser aspects.
While there were no such tests of eligibil¬
ity, it is true that the Blue Veins had their
notions on these subjects, and that not all of
them were equally liberal in regard to the
things they collectively disclaimed. Mr.
Ryder was one of the most conservative.
Though he had not been among the founders
of the society, but had come in some years
later, his genius for social leadership was such
that he had speedily become its recognized
adviser and head, the custodian of its stand¬
ards, and the preserver of its traditions. He
shaped its social policy, was active in provid¬
ing for its entertainment, and when the inter¬
est fell off, as it sometimes did, he fanned the
embers until they burst again into a cheerful
flame.
There were still other reasons for his popu¬
larity. While he was not as white as some
of the Blue Veins, his appearance was such


4 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH
as to confer distinction upon them. His fea¬
tures were of a refined type, his hair was
almost straight; he was always neatly dressed;
his manners were irreproachable, and his
morals above suspicion. He had come to
Groveland a young man, and obtaining em¬
ployment in the office of a railroad company
as messenger had in time worked himself up
to the position of stationery clerk, having
charge of the distribution of the office supplies
for the whole company. Although the lack
of early training had hindered the orderly
development of a naturally fine mind, it had
not prevented him from doing a great deal of
reading or from forming decidedly literary
tastes. Poetry was his passion. He could
repeat whole pages of the great English
poets; and if his pronunciation was some¬
times faulty, his eye, his voice, his gestures,
would respond to the changing sentiment with
a precision that revealed a poetic soul and
disarmed criticism. He was economical, and
had saved money; he owned and occupied a
very comfortable house on a respectable street.
His residence was handsomely furnished, con¬
taining among other things a good library,
especially rich in poetry, a piano, and some


THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH
5
choice engravings. He generally shared his
house with some young couple, who looked
after his wants and were company for him;
for Mr. Ryder was a single man. In the
early days of his connection with the Blue
Y eins he had been regarded as quite a catch,
and young ladies and their mothers had
manoeuvred with much ingenuity to capture
him; Not, however, until Mrs. Molly Dixon
visited Groveland had any woman ever made
him wish to change his condition to that of a
married man.
Mrs. Dixon had come to Groveland from
Washington in the spring, and before the
summer was over she had won Mr. Ryder's
heart. She possessed many attractive quali¬
ties. She was much younger than he; in
fact, he was old enough to have been her fa¬
ther, though no one knew exactly how old he
was. She was whiter than he, and better ed¬
ucated. She had moved in the best colored
society of the country, at Washington, and
had taught in the schools of that city. Such
a superior person had been eagerly welcomed
to the Blue Vein Society, and had taken a
leading part in its activities. Mr. Ryder had
at first been attracted by her charms of per-


6 THE WIFE OF HIS YOXJTH
son, for she was very good looking and not
over twenty-five; then by her refined man¬
ners and the vivacity of her wit. Her hus¬
band had been a government clerk, and at
his death had left a considerable life insur¬
ance. She was visiting friends in Groveland,
and, finding the town and the people to her
liking, had prolonged her stay indefinitely.
She had not seemed displeased at Mr. Ryder's
attentions, but on the contrary had given
him every proper encouragement; indeed, a
younger and less cautious man would long
since have spoken. But he had made up his
mind, and had only to determine the time
when he would ask her to be his wife. He
decided to give a ball in her honor, and at
some time during the evening of the ball to
offer her his heart and hand. He had no
special fears about the outcome, but, with a
little touch of romance, he wanted the sur¬
roundings to be in harmony with his own
feelings when he should have received the
answer he expected.
Mr. Ryder resolved that this ball should
mark an epoch in the social history of Grove-
land. He knew, of course, — no one could
know better, — the entertainments that had


THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH 7
taken place in past years, and what must be
done to surpass them. His ball must be
worthy of the lady in whose honor it was to
be given, and must, by the quality of its
guests, set an example for the future. He
had observed of late a growing liberality,
almost a laxity, in social matters, even among
members of his own set, and had several times
been forced to meet in a social way persons
whose complexions and callings in life were
hardly up to the standard which he considered
proper for the society to maintain. He had a
theory of his own.
" I have no race prejudice," he would say,
" but we people of mixed blood are ground
between the upper and the nether millstone.
Our fate lies between absorption by the white
race and extinction in the black. The one
does n't want us yet, but may take us in time.
The other would welcome us, but it would be
for us a backward step. ' With malice to¬
wards none, with charity for all,' we must do
the best we can for ourselves and those who
are to follow us. Self-preservation is the first
law of nature."
His ball would serve by its exclusiveness to
counteract leveling tendencies, and his mar-


8 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH
riage with Mrs. Dixon would lielp to further
the upward process of absorption he had been
wishing and waiting for.
n
The ball was to take place on Friday night.
The house had been put in order, the carpets
covered with canvas, the halls and stairs de¬
corated with palms and potted plants ; and in
the afternoon Mr. Ryder sat on his front
porch, which the shade of a vine running up
over a wire netting made a cool and pleasant
lounging place. He expected to respond to
the toast " The Ladies " at the supper, and
from a volume of Tennyson — his favorite
poet — was fortifying himself with apt quo¬
tations. The volume was open at " A Dream
of Fair Women." His eyes fell on these lines,
and he read them aloud to judge better of
their effect: —
" At length I saw a lady within call,
Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there ; »
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair."
He marked the verse, and turning the page
read the stanza beginning, —
" O sweet pale Margaret,
O rare pale Margaret."


THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH 9
He weighed the passage a moment, and de¬
cided that it would not do. Mrs. Dixon was
the palest lady he expected at the ball, and
she was of a rather ruddy complexion, and of
lively disposition and buxom build. So he
ran over the leaves until his eye rested on
the description of Queen Guinevere: —
"She seem'd a part of joyous Spring :
A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
Buckled with golden clasps before ;
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore
Closed in a golden ring.
" She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd
The rein with dainty finger-tips,
A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips."
As Mr. Ryder murmured these words au¬
dibly, with an appreciative thrill, he heard
the latch of his gate click, and a light foot¬
fall sounding on the steps. He turned his
head, and saw a woman standing before his
door.
She was a little woman, not five feet tall,
and proportioned to her height. Although
she stood erect, and looked around her with
very bright and restless eyes, she seemed


10 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH
quite old; for her face was crossed and re-
crossed with a hundred wrinkles, and around
the edges of her bonnet could be seen pro¬
truding here and there a tuft of short gray
wool. She wore a blue calico gown of
ancient cut, a little red shawl fastened around
her shoulders with an old-fashioned brass
brooch, and a large bonnet profusely orna¬
mented with faded red and yellow artificial
flowers. And she was very black, -— so black
that her toothless gums, revealed when she
opened her mouth to speak, were not red, but
blue. She looked like a bit of the old plan¬
tation life, summoned up from the past by
the wave of a magician's wand, as the poet's
fancy had called into being the gracious
shapes of which Mr. Ryder had just been
reading.
He rose from his chair and came over to
where she stood.
" Good-afternoon, madam," he said.
" Good-evenin', suh," she answered, duck¬
ing suddenly with a quaint curtsy. Her
voice was shrill and piping, but softened
somewhat by age. " Is dis yere whar Mistuh
Ryduh lib, suh ? " she asked, looking around
her doubtfully, and glancing into the open


THE WIFE OF HIS TOUTH 11
windows, through which some of the prepara¬
tions for the evening were visible.
" Yes," he replied, with an air of kindly
patronage, unconsciously flattered by her man¬
ner, " I am Mr. Ryder. Did you want to see
me?"
" Yas, suh, ef I ain't 'sturbin' of you too
much."
"Not at all. Have a seat over here behind
the vine, where it is cool. What can I do
for you?"
" 'Scuse me, suh," she continued, when she
had sat down on the edge of a chair, " 'scuse
me, suh, I's lookin' for my husban'. I heerd
you wuz a big man an' had libbed heah a
long time, an' I 'lowed you would n't min' ef
I'd come roun' an' ax you ef you'd ever
heerd of a merlatter man by de name er Sam
Taylor 'quirin' roun' in de chu'ches ermongs'
de people fer his wife 'Liza Jane?"
Mr. Ryder seemed to think for a moment.
" There used to be many such cases right
after the war," he said, "but it has been
so long that I have forgotten them. There
are very few now. But tell me your story,
and it may refresh my memory."
She sat back farther in her chair so as to


12 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH
be more comfortable, and folded her withered
hands in her lap.
" My name's 'Liza," she began, " 'Liza
Jane. Wen I wuz young I us'ter b'long ter
Marse Bob Smif, down in ole Missoura. I
wuz bawn down dere. Wen I wuz a gal
I wuz married ter a man named Jim. But
Jim died, an' after dat I married a merlatter
man named Sam Taylor. Sam wuz free-
bawn, but his mammy and daddy died,
an' de w'ite folks 'prenticed him ter my
marster fer ter work fer 'im 'tel he wuz
growed up. Sam worked in de fiel', an' I
wuz de cook. One day Ma'y Ann, ole miss's
maid, came rushin' out ter de kitchen, an'
says she, ' 'Liza Jane, ole marse gwine sell
yo' Sam down de ribber.'
"' Go way f'm yere,' says I; ' my hus-
ban' 's free !'
"'Don' make no diff'ence. I heerd ole
marse tell ole miss he wuz gwine take yo'
Sam 'way wid 'im ter-morrow, fer he needed
money, an' he knowed whar he could git a
t'ousan' dollars fer Sam an' no questions
axed.'
" Wen Sam come home f'm de fiel' dat
night, I tole him 'bout ole marse gwine


THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH 13
steal 'im, an' Sam run erway. His time wuz
mos' up, an' he swo' dat w'en he wuz twenty-
one he would come back an' he'p me run
erway, er else save up de money ter buy my
freedom. An' I know he'd 'a' done it, fer
he thought a heap er me, Sam did. But w'en
he come back he did n' fin' me, fer I wuz n'
dere. Ole marse had heerd dat I warned
Sam, so he had me whip' an' sol' down de
ribber.
" Den de wah broke out, an' w'en it wuz
ober de cullud folks wuz scattered. I went
back ter de ole home; but Sam wuz n' dere,
an* I could n' l'arn nuffin' 'bout 'im. But I
knowed he'd be'n dere to look fer me an'
had n' foun' me, an' had gone erway ter hunt
fer me.
" I's be'n lookin' fer 'im eber sence," she
added simply, as though twenty-five years
were but a couple of weeks, "an' I knows
he's be'n lookin' fer me. Fer he sot a heap
er sto' by me, Sam did, an' I know he's be'n
huntin' fer me all dese years, — 'less'n he's
be'n sick er sump'n, so he could n' work, er
out'n his head, so he could n' 'member his
promise. I went back down de ribber, fer I
'lowed he'd gone down dere lookin' fer me.


14 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH
I's be'n ter Noo Orleens, an' Atlanty, an'
Charleston, an' Richmon'; an' w'en I 'd be'n
all ober de Souf I come ter de Norf. Fer I
knows I '11 fin' 'im some er dese days," sbe
added softly, " er he '11 fin' me, an' den we '11
bofe be as happy in freedom as we wuz in de
ole days befo' de wah." A smile stole over
her withered countenance as she paused a mo¬
ment, and her bright eyes softened into a far¬
away look.
This was the substance of the old woman's
story. She had wandered a little here and
there. Mr. Ryder was looking at her curi¬
ously when she finished.
" How have you lived all these years ? " he
asked.
" Cookin', suh. I's a good cook. Does
you know anybody w'at needs a good cook,
suh ? I's stoppin' wid a cullud fam'ly roun'
de corner yonder 'tel I kin git a place."
"Do you really expect to find your hus¬
band ? He may be dead long ago."
She shook her head emphatically. " Oh
no, he ain' dead. De signs an' de tokens tells
me. I dremp three nights runnin' on'y dis las'
week dat I foun' him."
"He may have married another woman.


THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH 15
Your slave marriage would not have pre¬
vented him, for you never lived with him
after the war, and without that your marriage
does n't count."
" Would n' make no diff'ence wid Sam.
He would n' marry no yuther 'ooman 'tel he
foun' out 'bout me. I knows it," she added.
" Sump'n's be'n tellin' me all dese years dat
I's gwine fin' Sam 'fo' I dies."
" Perhaps he's outgrown you, and climbed
up in the world where he would n't care to
have you find him."
" No, indeed, suh," she replied, " Sam am'
dat kin' er man. He wuz good ter me, Sam
wuz, but he wuz n' much good ter nobody
e'se, fer he wuz one er de triflin'es' han's on
de plantation. I 'spec's ter haf ter suppo't
7im w'en I fin' 'im, fer he nebber would work
'less'n he had ter. But den he wuz free, an'
he did n' git no pay fer his work, an' I don'
blame 'im much. Mebbe he's done better
sence he run erway, but I ain' 'spectin' much."
"You may have passed -him on the street
a hundred times during the twenty-five years,
and not have known him; time works great
changes."
She smiled incredulously. " I'd know 'im


16 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH
'mongs* a hund'ed men. Fer dey wuz n' no
yuther merlatter man like my man Sam, an'
I could n' be mistook. I's toted his picture
roun' wid me twenty-five years."
"May I see it?" asked Mr. Ryder. "It
might help me to remember whether I have
seen the original."
As she drew a small parcel from her bosom
he saw that it was fastened to a string that
went around her neck. Removing several
wrappers, she brought to light an old-
fashioned daguerreotype in a black case.
He looked long and intently at the portrait.
It was faded with time, but the features* were
still distinct, and it was easy to see what man¬
ner of man it had represented.
He closed the case, and with a slow move¬
ment handed it back to her.
" I don't know of any man in town who
goes by that name," he said, " nor have I
heard of any one making such inquiries. But
if you will leave me your address, I will give
the matter some ^attention, and if I find out
anything I will let you know."
She gave him the number of a house in the
neighborhood, and went away, after thanking
him warmly.


THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH 17
He wrote the address on the fly-leaf o£
the volume of Tennyson, and, when she had
gone, rose to his feet and stood looking after
her curiously. As she walked down the street
with mincing step, he saw several persons
whom she passed turn and look back at her
with a smile of kindly amusement. When
she had turned the corner, he went upstairs
to his bedroom, and stood for a long time be¬
fore the mirror of his dressing-case, gazing
thoughtfully at the reflection of his own face.
Ill
At eight o'clock the ballroom was a blaze
of light and the guests had begun to as¬
semble; for there was a literary programme
and some routine business of the society to
be gone through with before the dancing.
A black servant in evening dress waited at
the door and directed the guests to the dress¬
ing-rooms.
The occasion was long memorable among
the colored people of the city; not alone for
the dress and display, but for the high aver¬
age of intelligence and culture that distin¬
guished the gathering as a whole. There


THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH 19
" The last toast," said the toast-master,
when he reached the end of the list, " is one
which must appeal to us all. There is no one
of us of the sterner sex who is not at some
time dependent upon woman, — in infancy
for protection, in manhood for companion¬
ship, in old age for care and comforting. Our
good host has been trying to live alone, but
the fair faces I see around me to-night prove
that he too is largely dependent upon the
gentler sex for most that makes life worth
living, — the society and love of friends, —
and rumor is at fault if he does not soon yield
entire subjection to one of them. Mr. Ryder
will now respond to the toast,— The Ladies."
There was a pensive look in Mr. Ryder's
eyes as he took the floor and adjusted his eye¬
glasses. He began by speaking of woman as
the gift of Heaven to man, and after some
general observations on the relations of the
sexes he said: " But perhaps the quality which
most distinguishes woman is her fidelity and
devotion to those she loves. History is full
of examples, but has recorded none more
striking than one which only to-day came
under my notice."
He then related, simply but effectively, the


20 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH
story told by his visitor of the afternoon. He
gave it in the same soft dialect, which came
readily to his lips, while the company listened
attentively and sympathetically. For the
story had awakened a responsive thrill in
many hearts. There were some present who
had seen, and others who had heard their
fathers and grandfathers tell, the wrongs and
sufferings of this past generation, and all of
them still felt, in their darker moments, the
shadow hanging over them. Mr. Ryder went
on: —
" Such devotion and confidence are rare
even among women. There are many who
would have searched a year, some who would
have waited five years, a few who might
have hoped ten years; but for twenty-five
years this woman has retained her affection
for and her faith in a man she has not seen
or heard of in all that time.
" She came to me to-day in the hope that I
might be able to help her find this long-lost
husband. And when she was gone I gave my
fancy rein, and imagined a case I will put to
you.
"Suppose that this husband, soon after his
escape, had learned that his wife had been


THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH 21
sold away, and that such inquiries as he could
make brought no information of her where¬
abouts. Suppose that he was young, and she
much older than he; that he was light, and
she was black; that their marriage was a
slave marriage, and legally binding only if
they chose to make it so after the war. Sup¬
pose, too, that he made his way to the North,
as some of us have done, and there, where he
had larger opportunities, had improved them,
and had in the course of all these years grown
to be as different from the ignorant boy who
ran away from fear of slavery as the day is
from the night. Suppose, even, that he had
qualified himself, by industry, by thrift, and
by study, to win the friendship and be con¬
sidered worthy the society of such people as
these I see around me to-night, gracing my
board and filling my heart with gladness;
for I am old enough to remember the day
when such a gathering would not have been
possible in this land. Suppose, too, that, as
the years went by, this man's memory of the
past grew more and more indistinct, until at
last it was rarely, except in his dreams, that
any image of this bygone period rose before
his mind. And then suppose that accident


22 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH
should bring to his knowledge the fact that
the wife of his youth, the wife he had left
behind him, — not one who had walked by
his side and kept pace with him in his upward
struggle, but one upon whom advancing
years and a laborious life had set their mark,
— was alive and seeking him, but that he
was absolutely safe from recognition or dis¬
covery, unless he chose to reveal himself.
My friends, what would the man do ? I will
presume that he was one who loved honor,
and tried to deal justly with all men. I will
even carry the case further, and suppose that
perhaps he had set his heart upon another,
whom he had hoped to call his own. What
would he do, or rather what ought he to do,
in such a crisis of a lifetime ?
" It seemed to me that he might hesitate,
and I imagined that I was an old friend, a
near friend, and that he had come to me for
advice; and I argued the case with him. I
tried to discuss it impartially. After we had
looked upon the matter from every point of
view, I said to him, in words that we all
know: —
i This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.'


THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH 28
Then, finally, I put the question to him,c Shall
you acknowledge her ?'
" And now, ladies and gentlemen, friends
and companions, I ask you, what should he
have done?"
There was something in Mr. Ryder's voice
that stirred the hearts of those who sat around
him. It suggested more than mere sympathy
with an imaginary situation ; it seemed rather
in the nature of a personal appeal. It was
observed, too, that his look rested more espe¬
cially upon Mrs. Dixon, with a mingled ex¬
pression of renunciation and inquiry.
She had listened, with parted lips and
streaming eyes. She was the first to speak:
" He should have acknowledged her."
"Yes," they all echoed, "he should have
acknowledged her."
" My friends and companions," responded
Mr. Ryder, " I thank you, one and all. It
is the answer I expected, for I knew your
hearts."
He turned and walked toward the closed
door of an adjoining room, while every eye
followed him in wondering curiosity. He
came back in a moment, leading by the hand
his visitor of the afternoon, who stood startled


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
I
The pianist had struck up a lively two-step,
and soon the floor was covered with couples,
each turning on its own axis, and all revolving
around a common centre, in obedience per¬
haps to the same law of motion that governs
the planetary systems. The dancing-hall was
a long room, with a waxed floor that glistened
with the reflection of the lights from the
chandeliers. The walls were hung in paper
of blue and white, above a varnished hard
wood wainscoting; the monotony of surface
being broken by numerous windows draped
with curtains of dotted muslin, and by occa¬
sional engravings and colored pictures repre¬
senting the dances of various nations, judi¬
ciously selected. The rows of chairs along
the two sides of the room were left unoc¬
cupied by the time the music was well under
way, for the pianist, a tall colored woman
with long fingers and a muscular wrist, played


26 HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
with a verve and a swing that set the feet of
the listeners involuntarily in motion.
The dance was sure to occupy the class for
a quarter of an hour at least, and the little
dancing-mistress took the opportunity to slip
away to her own sitting-room, which was on
the same floor of the block, for a few minutes
of rest. Her day had been a hard one.
There had been a matinee at two o'clock, a
children's class at four, and at eight o'clock
the class now on the floor had assembled.
When she reached the sitting-room she
gave a start of pleasure. A young man rose
at her entrance, and advanced with both
hands extended — a tall, broad-shouldered,
fair-haired young man, with a frank and
kindly countenance, now lit up with the ani¬
mation of pleasure. He seemed about twenty-
six or twenty-seven years old. His face was
of the type one instinctively associates with
intellect and character, and it gave the im¬
pression, besides, of that intangible some¬
thing which we call race. He was neatly
and carefully dressed, though his clothing was
not without indications that he found it neces¬
sary or expedient to practice economy.
" Good-evening, Clara," he said, taking her


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
27
hands in his ; " I 've been waiting for you five
minutes. I supposed you would be in, but if
you had been a moment later I was going to
the hall to look you up. You seem tired to¬
night/' he added, drawing her nearer to him
and scanning her features at short range.
" This work is too hard; you are not fitted
for it. When are you going to give it up ? "
" The season is almost over," she answered,
u and then I shall stop for the summer."
He drew her closer still and kissed her lov¬
ingly. " Tell me, Clara," he said, looking
down into her face, — he was at least a foot
taller than she, —" when I am to have my
answer."
" Will you take the answer you can get to¬
night ? " she asked with a wan smile.
" I will take but one answer, Clara. But
do not make me wait too long for that. Why,
just think of it! I have known you for six
months."
" That is an extremely long time," said
Clara, as they sat down side by side.
" It has been an age," he rejoined. "For
a fortnight of it, too, which seems longer
than all the rest, I have been waiting for my
answer. I am turning gray under the sus-


28
HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
pense. Seriously, Clara dear, what shall it be?
or rather, when shall it be? for to the other
question there is but one answer possible."
He looked into her eyes, which slowly filled
with tears. She repulsed him gently as he
bent over to kiss them away.
" You know I love you, John, and why I
do not say what you wish. You must give
me a little more time to make up my mind be¬
fore I can consent to burden you with a name¬
less wife, one who does not know who her
mother was " —
" She was a good woman, and beautiful, if
you are at all 'like her."
" Or her father " —
- He was a gentleman and a scholar, if you
inherited from him your mind or your man¬
ners."
" It is good of you to say that, and I try to
believe it. But it is a serious matter; it is
a dreadful thing to have no name."
" You are known by a worthy one, which
was freely given you, and is legally yours."
" I know— and I am grateful for it. After
all, though, it is not my real name; and since
I have learned that it was not, it seems like a
garment —something external, accessory, and


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
29
not a part of myself. It does not mean what
one's own name would signify."
<e Take mine, Clara, and make it yours ; I
lay it at your feet. Some honored men have
borne it."
" Ah yes, and that is what makes my posi¬
tion the harder. Your great-grandfather was
governor of Connecticut."
" I have heard my mother say so."
66 And one of your ancestors came over in
the Mayflower."
" In some capacity — I have never been
quite clear whether as ship's cook or before
the mast."
" Now you are insincere, John ; but you
cannot deceive me. You never spoke in that
way about your ancestors until you learned
that I had none. I know you are proud of
them, and that the memory of the governor
and the judge and the Harvard professor and
the Mayflower pilgrim makes you strive to
excel, in order to prove • yourself worthy of
them."
" It did until I met you, Clara. Now the
one inspiration of my life is the hope to make
you mine."
" And your profession ? "


30
HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
" It will furnish me the means to take you
out of this; you are not fit for toil."
" And your book — your treatise that is to
make you famous ? "
" I have worked twice as hard on it and
accomplished twice as much since I have
hoped that you might share my success."
" Oh ! if. I but knew the truth ! " she
sighed, " or could find it out! I realize that
I am absurd, that I ought to be happy. I
love my parents — my foster-parents — dearly.
I owe them everything. Mother — poor, dear
mother! — could not have loved me better
or cared for me more faithfully had I been
her own child. Yet — I am ashamed to say
it — I always felt that I was not like them,
that there was a subtle difference between us.
They were contented in prosperity, resigned
in misfortune ; I was ever restless, and filled
with vague ambitions. They were good, but
dull. They loved me, but they never said so.
I feel that there is warmer, richer blood cours¬
ing in my veins than the placid stream that
crept through theirs."
" There will never be any such people to
me as they were," said her lover, " for they
took you and brought you up for me."


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
31
c< Sometimes," she went on dreamily, " I
feel sure that I am of good family, and the
blood of my ancestors seems to call to me in
clear and certain tones. Then again when
my mood changes, I am all at sea — I feel
that even if I had but simply to turn my
hand to learn who I am and whence I came,
I should shrink from taking the step, for fear
that what I might learn would leave me for¬
ever unhappy."
" Dearest," he said, taking her in his arms,
while from the hall and down the corridor
came the softened strains of music, " put
aside these unwholesome fancies. Your past
is shrouded in mystery. Take my name, as
you have taken my love, and I '11 make your
future so happy that you won't have time to
think of the past. What are a lot of musty,
mouldy old grandfathers, compared with life
and love and happiness? It's hardly good
form to mention one's ancestors nowadays,
and what's the use of them at all if one
can't boast of them ? "
" It's all very well of you to talk that way,"
she rejoined. " But suppose you should
marry me, and when you become famous and
rich, and patients flock to your office, and


32
HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
fashionable people to your home, and every
one wants to know who you are and whence
you came, you '11 be obliged to bring out the
governor, and the judge, and the rest of them.
If you should refrain, in order to forestall
embarrassing inquiries about my ancestry, I
should have deprived you of something you
are entitled to, something which has a real
social value. And when people found out
all about you, as they eventually would from
some source, they would want to know — we
Americans are a curious people — who your
wife was, and you could only say " —
" The best and sweetest woman on earth,
whom I love unspeakably."
" You know that is not what I mean. You
could only say — a Miss Nobody, from No¬
where."
" A Miss Hohlfelder, from Cincinnati, the
only child of worthy German parents, who fled
from their own country in '49 to escape polit¬
ical persecution — an ancestry that one surely
need not be ashamed of."
" No ; but the consciousness that it was not
true would be always with me, poisoning my
mind, and darkening my life and yours/'
" Your views of life are entirely too tragic,


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
33
Clara," the young man argued soothingly.
"We are all worms of the dust, and if we
go back far enough, each of us has had millions
of ancestors; peasants and serfs, most of them;
thieves, murderers, and vagabonds, many of
them, no doubt; and therefore the best of us
have but little to boast of. Yet we are all
made after God's own image, and formed by
his hand, for his ends; and therefore not to
be lightly despised, even the humblest of us,
least of all by ourselves. For the past we can
claim no credit, for those who made it died
with it. Our destiny lies in the future."
"Yes," she sighed, " I know all that. But
I am not like you. A woman is not like a
man ; she cannot lose herself in theories and
generalizations. And there are tests that even
all your philosophy could not endure. Sup¬
pose you should marry me, and then some
time, by the merest accident, you should learn
that my origin was the worst it could be —
that I not only had no name, but was not
entitled to one."
" I cannot believe it," he said,<e and from
what we do know of your history it is hardly
possible. If I learned it, I should forget it,
unless, perchance, it should enhance your


34
HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
value in my eyes, by stamping you as a rare
work of nature, an exception to the law of
heredity, a triumph of pure beauty and good¬
ness over the grosser limitations of matter.
I cannot imagine, now that I know you,
anything that could make me love you less.
I would marry you just the same — even
if you were one of your dancing-class to¬
night."
" I must go back to them," said Clara, as
the music ceased.
"My answer," he urged, "give me my
answer!"
" Not to-night, John," she pleaded. " Grant
me a little longer time to make up my mind
— for your sake."
" Not for my sake, Clara, no."
" Well— for mine." She let him take her
in his arms and kiss her again.
" I have a patient yet to see to-night," he
said as he went out. "If I am not detained
too long, I may come back this way — if I see
the lights in the hall still burning. Do not
wonder if I ask you again for my answer,
for I shall be unhappy until I get it."


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
35
II
A stranger entering the hall with Miss
Hohlfelder would have seen, at first glance,
only a company of well-dressed people, with
nothing to specially distinguish them from
ordinary humanity in temperate climates.
After the eye had rested for a moment and
begun to separate the mass into its compo¬
nent parts, one or two dark faces would
have arrested its attention ; and with the sug¬
gestion thus offered, a closer inspection would
have revealed that they were nearly all a
little less than white. With most of them
this fact would not have been noticed, while
they were alone or in company with one an¬
other, though if a fair white person had gone
among them it would perhaps have been more
apparent. From the few who were undis-
tinguishable from pure white, the colors ran
down the scale by minute gradations to the
two or three brown faces at the other ex¬
tremity.
It was Miss Hohlfelder's first colored class.
She had been somewhat startled when first
asked to take it. No person of color had ever
applied to her for lessons; and while a woman


86 HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
of that race had played the piano for her for
several months, she had never thought of
colored people as possible pupils. So when
she was asked if she would take a class of
twenty or thirty, she had hesitated, and
begged for time to consider the application.
She knew that several of the more fashion¬
able dancing-schools tabooed all pupils, singly
or in classes, who labored under social disabili¬
ties — and this included the people of at least
one other race who were vastly farther along
in the world than the colored people of the
community where Miss Hohlfelder lived.
Personally she had no such prejudice, except
perhaps a little shrinking at the thought of
personal contact with the dark faces of whom
Americans always think when " colored peo¬
ple " are spoken of. Again, a class of forty
pupils was not to be despised, for she taught
for money, which was equally current and
desirable, regardless of its color. She had
consulted her foster-parents, and after them
her lover. Her foster-parents, who were Ger¬
man-born, and had never become thoroughly
Americanized, saw no objection. As for her
lover, he was indifferent.
" Do as you please," he said. " It may


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY 37
drive away some other pupils. If it should
break up the business entirely, perhaps you
might be willing to give me a chance so
much the sooner."
She mentioned the matter to one or two
other friends, who expressed conflicting opin¬
ions. She decided at length to take the class,
and take the consequences.
" I don't think it would be either right or
kind to refuse them for any such reason, and
I don't believe I shall lose anything by it."
She was somewhat surprised, and pleasantly
so, when her class came together for their
first lesson, at not finding them darker and
more uncouth. Her pupils were mostly peo¬
ple whom she would have passed on the street
without a second glance, and among them
were several whom she had known by sight
for years, but had never dreamed of as being
colored people. Their manners were good,
they dressed quietly and as a rule with good
taste, avoiding rather than choosing bright
colors and striking combinations — whether
from natural preference, or because of a
slightly morbid shrinking from criticism, of
course she could not say. Among them, the
dancing-mistress soon learned, there were law-


38 HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
jers and doctors, teachers, telegraph operators,
clerks, milliners and dressmakers, students of
the local college and scientific school, and,
somewhat to her awe at the first meeting,
even a member of the legislature. They were
mostly young, although a few light - hearted
older people joined the class, as much for
company as for the dancing.
" Of course, Miss Hohlfelder," explained
Mr. Solomon Sadler, to whom the teacher had
paid a compliment on the quality of the class,
" the more advanced of us are not numerous
enough to make the fine distinctions that are
possible among white people ; and of course
as we rise in life we can't get entirely away
from our brothers and our sisters and our
cousins, who don't always keep abreast of us.
We do, however, draw certain lines of charac¬
ter and manners and occupation. You see
the sort of people we are. Of course we have
no prejudice against color, and we regard all
labor as honorable, provided a man does the
best he can. But we must have standards
that will give our people something to
aspire to."
The class was not a difficult one, as many
of the members were already fairly good


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
39
dancers. Indeed the class had been formed
as much for pleasure as for instruction.
Music and hall rent and a knowledge of the
latest dances could be obtained cheaper in
this way than in any other. The pupils had
made rapid progress, displaying in fact a
natural aptitude for rhythmic motion, and a
keen susceptibility to musical sounds. As
their race had never been criticised for these
characteristics, they gave them full play, and
soon developed, most of them, into graceful
and indefatigable dancers. They were now
almost at the end of their course, and this
was the evening of the last lesson but one.
Miss Hohlfelder had remarked to her lover
more than once that it was a pleasure to
teach them. " They enter into the spirit of it
so thoroughly, and they seem to enjoy them¬
selves so much."
" One would think," he suggested, " that
the whitest of them would find their position
painful and more or less pathetic ; to be so
white and yet to be classed as black — so near
and yet so far."
" They don't accept our classification
blindly. They do not acknowledge any in¬
feriority ; they think they are a great deal


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
41
Miss Hohlfelder felt a sudden yearning for
sympathy. Perhaps it was the gentle tones of
the greeting; perhaps the kindly expression
of the soft though faded eyes that were scan¬
ning Miss Hohlfelder's features. The woman
was of the indefinite age between forty and
fifty. There were lines on her face which, if
due to years, might have carried her even
past the half-century mark, but if caused
by trouble or ill health might leave her some¬
what below it. She was quietly dressed in
black, and wore her slightly wavy hair low
over her ears, where it lay naturally in the
ripples which some others of her sex so
sedulously seek by art. A little woman, of
clear olive complexion and regular features,
her face was almost a perfect oval, except as
time had marred its outline. She had been
in the habit of coming to the class with some
young women of the family she lived with,
part boarder, part seamstress and friend of
the family. Sometimes, while waiting for
her young charges, the music would jar her
nerves, and she would seek the comparative
quiet of the dressing-room.
" Oh, I'm all right, Mrs. Harper," replied
the dancing-mistress, with a brave attempt at


42 HER VIB GIN I A MAMMY
cheerfulness, — "just a little tired, after a
hard day's work."
She sat down on the couch by the elder
woman's side. Mrs. Harper took her hand
and stroked it gently, and Clara felt soothed
and quieted by her touch.
" There are tears in your eyes and trouble
in your face. I know it, for I have shed the
one and known the other. Tell me, child,
what ails you? I am older than you, and
perhaps I have learned some things in the
hard school of life that may be of comfort or
service to you."
Such a request, coming from a comparative
stranger, might very properly have been re¬
sented or lightly parried. But Clara was not
what would be called self-contained. Her
griefs seemed lighter when they were shared
with others, even in spirit. There was in
her nature a childish strain that craved
sympathy and comforting. She had never
known — or if so it was only in a dim and
dreamlike past — the tender, brooding care
that was her conception of a mother's love.
Mrs. Hohlfelder had been fond of her in a
placid way, and had given her every com¬
fort and luxury her means permitted. Clara's


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
43
ideal of maternal love had been of another
and more romantic type; she had thought o£
a fond, impulsive mother, to whose bosom
she could fly when in trouble or distress, and
to whom she could communicate her sorrows
and trials; who would dry her tears and
soothe her with caresses. Now, when even
her kind foster-mother was gone, she felt still
more the need of sympathy and companion¬
ship with her own sex; and when this little
Mrs. Harper spoke to her so gently, she felt
her heart respond instinctively.
" Yes, Mrs. Harper," replied Clara with a
sigh, " I am in trouble, but it is trouble that
you nor any one else can heal."
" You do not know, child. A simple
remedy can sometimes cure a very grave
complaint. Tell me your trouble, if it is
something you are at liberty to tell."
" I have a story," said Clara, " and it is a
strange one, — a story I have told to but one
other person, one very dear to me."
" He must be dear to you indeed, from the
tone in which you speak of him. Your very
accents breathe love."
"Yes, I love him, and if you saw him —
perhaps you have seen him, for he has looked


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
45
ally my name. In fact I do not know my
real name, for I am not the daughter of Mr.
and Mrs. Hohlfelder, but only an adopted
child. While Mrs. Hohlfelder lived, I never
knew that I was not her child. I knew I was
very different from her and father, — I mean
Mr. Hohlfelder. I knew they were fair and
I was dark; they were stout and I was slen¬
der ; they were slow and I was quick. But
of course I never dreamed of the true reason
of this difference. When mother — Mrs.
Hohlfelder — died, I found among her things
one day a little packet, carefully wrapped up,
containing a child's slip and some trinkets.
The paper wrapper of the packet bore an in¬
scription that awakened my curiosity. I
asked father Hohlfelder whose the things had
been, and then for the first time I learned
my real story.
" I was not their own daughter, he stated,
but an adopted child. Twenty-three years
ago, when he had lived in St. Louis, a steam¬
boat explosion had occurred up the river, and
on a piece of wreckage floating down stream,
a girl baby had been found. There was
nothing on the child to give a hint of its
home or parentage; and no one came to claim


46
IIER VIRGINIA MAMMY
it, though the fact that a child had been
found was advertised all along the river.
It was believed that the infant's parents must
have perished in the wreck, and certainly no
one of those who were saved could identify
the child. There had been a passenger list
on board the steamer, but the list, with the
officer who kept it, had been lost in the acci¬
dent. The child was turned over to an or¬
phan asylum, from which within a year it
was adopted by the two kind-hearted and
childless German people who brought it up
as their own. I was that child."
The woman seated by Clara's side had
listened with strained attention. " Did you
learn the name of the steamboat ? " she asked
quietly, but quickly, when Clara paused.
" The Pride of St. Louis," answered Clara.
She did not look at Mrs. Harper, but was
gazing dreamily toward the front, and there¬
fore did not see the expression that sprang
into the other's face, — a look in which hope
struggled with fear, and yearning love with
both, — nor the strong effort with which
Mrs. Harper controlled herself and moved not
one muscle while the other went on.
" I was never sought," Clara continued,


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
47
"and the good people who brought me up
gave me every care. Father and mother —
I can never train my tongue to call them any¬
thing else — were very good to me. When
they adopted me they were poor; he was a
pharmacist with a small shop. Later on he
moved to Cincinnati, where he made and sold
a popular 'patent' medicine and amassed a
fortune. Then I went to a fashionable school,
was taught French, and deportment, and dan¬
cing. Father Hohlfelder made some bad
investments, and lost most of his money. The
patent medicine fell off in popularity. A
year or two ago we came to this city to live.
Father bought this block and opened the
little drug store below. We moved into the
rooms upstairs. The business was poor, and
I felt that I ought to do something to earn
money and help support the family. I could
dance; we had this hall, and it was not rented
all the time, so I opened a dancing-school."
"Tell me, child," said the other woman,
with restrained eagerness, "what were the
things found upon you when you were taken
from the river ? "
"Yes," answered the girl, "I will. But I
have not told you all my story, for this is but


48
HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
the prelude. About a year ago a young doc¬
tor rented an office in our block. We met
each, other, at first only now and then, and
afterwards oftener; and six months ago he
told me that he loved me."
She paused, and sat with half opened lips
and dreamy eyes, looking back into the past
six months.
" And the things found upon you " —
" Yes, I will show them to you when you
have heard all my story. He wanted to marry
me, and has asked me every week since. I have
told him that I love him, but I have not said
I would marry him. I don't think it would
be right for me to do so, unless I could clear
up this mystery. I believe he is going to be
great and rich and famous, and there might
come a time when he would be ashamed of
me. I don't say that I shall never marry
him; for I have hoped—I have a presenti¬
ment that in some strange way I shall find
out who I am, and who my parents were. It
may be mere imagination on my part, but
somehow I believe it is more than that."
" Are you sure there was no mark on the
things that were found upon you ? " said the
elder woman.


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
49
" Ah yes," sighed Clara, " I am sure, for I
have looked at them a hundred times. They
tell me nothing1, and yet they suggest to me
many things. Come," she said, taking the
other by the hand, " and I will show them
to you."
She led the way along the hall to her sit¬
ting-room, and to her bedchamber beyond.
It was a small room hung with paper showing a
pattern of morning-glories on a light ground,
with dotted muslin curtains, a white iron bed¬
stead, a few prints on the wall, a rocking-
chair— a very dainty room. She went to
the maple dressing-case, and opened one of
the drawers.
As they stood for a moment, the mirror re¬
flecting and framing their image, more
than one point of resemblance between them
was emphasized. There was something of
the same oval face, and in Clara's hair a faint
suggestion of the wave in the older wo¬
man's ; and though Clara was fairer of com¬
plexion, and her eyes were gray and the
other's black, there was visible, under the in¬
fluence of the momentary excitement, one of
those indefinable likenesses which are at times
encountered, — sometimes marking blood re-


50
HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
lationship, sometimes the impress of a common
training; in one case perhaps a mere earmark
of temperament, and in another the index of
a type. Except for the difference in color,
one might imagine that if the younger woman
were twenty years older the resemblance
would be still more apparent.
Clara reached her hand into the drawer
and drew out a folded packet, which she un¬
wrapped, Mrs. Harper following her move¬
ments meanwhile with a suppressed intensity
of interest which Clara, had she not been
absorbed in her own thoughts, could not
have failed to observe.
When the last fold of paper was removed
there lay revealed a child's muslin slip. Clara
lifted it and shook it gently until it was un¬
folded before their eyes. The lower half
was delicately worked in a lacelike pattern,
revealing an immense amount of patient
labor.
The elder woman seized the slip with hands
which could not disguise their trembling.
Scanning the garment carefully, she seemed
to be noting the pattern of the needlework,
and then, pointing to a certain spot, ex¬
claimed : —


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
51
" I thought so ! I was sure of it! Do you
not see the letters — M. S. ? "
" Oh, how wonderful!" Clara seized the
slip in turn and scanned the monogram.
" How strange that you should see that at once
and that I should not have discovered it,
who have looked at it a hundred times ! And
here," she added, opening a small pack¬
age which had been inclosed in the other,
"is my coral necklace. Perhaps your keen
eyes can find something in that."
It was a simple trinket, at which the older
woman gave but a glance — a glance that
added to her emotion.
" Listen, child," she said, laying her trem¬
bling hand on the other's arm. "It is all
very strange and wonderful, for that slip and
necklace, and, now that I have seen them,
your face and your voice and your ways, all
tell me who you are. Your eyes are your
father's eyes, your voice is your father's voice.
The slip was worked by your mother's hand."
" Oh ! " cried Clara, and for a moment the
whole world swam before her eyes.
" I was on the Pride of St. Louis, and I
knew your father — and your mother."
Clara, pale with excitement, burst into tears,


52
HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
and would have fallen had not the other wo¬
man caught her in her arms. Mrs. Harper
placed her on the couch, and, seated by her
side, supported her head on her shoulder.
Her hands seemed to caress the young woman
with every touch.
" Tell me, oh, tell me all!" Clara de¬
manded, when the first wave of emotion had
subsided. " Who were my father and my
mother, and who ami?"
The elder woman restrained her emotion
with an effort, and answered as composedly as
she could, —
" There were several hundred passengers on
the Pride of St. Louis when she left Cincin¬
nati on that fateful day, on her regular trip
to New Orleans. Your father and mother
were on the boat — and I was on the boat.
We were going down the river, to take ship
at New Orleans for France, a country which
your father loved."
" Who was my father? " asked Clara. The
woman's words fell upon her ear like water
on a thirsty soil.
"Your father was a Virginia gentleman,
and belonged to one of the first families,
the Staffords, of Melton County."


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
53
Clara drew herself up unconsciously, and
into her face there came a frank expression
of pride which became it wonderfully, setting
off a beauty that needed only this to make it
all but perfect of its type.
"I knew it must be so," she murmured.
" I have often felt it. Blood will always tell.
And my mother ? "
"Your mother — also belonged to one of
the first families of Virginia, and in her veins
flowed some of the best blood of the Old Do¬
minion."
" What was her maiden name ? "
" Mary Fairfax. As I was saying, your
father was a Virginia gentleman. He was as
handsome a man as ever lived, and proud, oh,
so proud ! — and good, and kind. He was a
graduate of the University and had studied
abroad."
" My mother — was she beautiful ? "
" She was much admired, and your father
loved her from the moment he first saw her.
Your father came back from Europe, upon his
father's sudden death, and entered upon his
inheritance. But he had been away from
Virginia so long, and had read so many books,
that he had outgrown his home. He did not


54
HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
believe that slavery was right, and one of the
first things he did was to free his slaves.
His views were not popular, and he sold out
his lands a year before the war, with the inten¬
tion of moving to Europe."
" In the mean time he had met and loved
and married my mother ? "
" In the mean time he had met and loved
your mother."
" My mother was a Virginia belle, was she
not? "
" The Fairfaxes," answered Mrs. Harper,
" were the first of the first families, the bluest
of the blue-bloods. The Miss Fairfaxes were
all beautiful and all social favorites."
" What did my father do then, when he
had sold out in Virginia?"
" He went with your mother and you — you
were then just a year old — to Cincinnati,
to settle up some business connected with
his estate. When he had completed his
business, he embarked on the Pride of St.
Louis with you and your mother and a colored
nurse."
"And how did you know about them?"
asked Clara.
" I was one of the party. I was " —


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
55
" You were the colored nurse ? — my
' mammy,' they would have called you in my
old Virginia home ? "
" Yes, child, I was — your mammy. Upon
my bosom you have rested ; my breasts once
gave you nourishment; my hands once min¬
istered to you; my arms sheltered you, and
my heart loved you and mourned you like a
mother loves and mourns her firstborn."
" Oh, how strange, how delightful!" ex¬
claimed Clara. " Now I understand why you
clasped me so tightly, and were so agitated
when I told you my story. It is too good
for me to believe. I am of good blood, of
an old and aristocratic family. My presenti¬
ment has come true. I can marry my lover,
and I shall owe all my happiness to you. How
can I ever repay you ? "
" You can kiss me, child, kiss your
mammy."
Their lips met, and they were clasped in
each other's arms. One put into the embrace
all of her new-found joy, the other all the
suppressed feeling of the last half hour, which
in turn embodied the unsatisfied yearning of
many years.
The music had ceased and the pupils had


56
HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
left the hall. Mrs. Harper's charges had sup¬
posed her gone, and had left for home with¬
out her. But the two women, sitting in
Clara's chamber, hand in hand, were oblivious
to external things and noticed neither the
hour nor the cessation of the music.
" Why, dear mammy," said the young
woman musingly, " did you not find me, and
restore me to my people ? "
" Alas, child ! I was not white, and when
I was picked up from the water, after floating
miles down the river, the man who found me
kept me prisoner for a time, and, there being
no inquiry for me, pretended not to believe
that I was free, and took me down to New
Orleans and sold me as a slave. A few years
later the war set me free. I went to St. Louis
but could find no trace of you. I had hardly
dared to hope that a child had been saved,
when so many grown men and women had
lost their lives. I made such inquiries as I
could, but all in vain."
" Did you go to the orphan asylum ? "
" The orphan asylum had been burned and
with it all the records. The war had scattered
the people so that I could find no one who
knew about a lost child saved from a river


HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
57
wreck. There were many orphans in those
days, and one more or less was not likely to
dwell in the public mind."
" Did you tell my people in Virginia ? "
" They, too, were scattered by the war.
Your uncles lost their lives on the battlefield.
The family mansion was burned to the ground.
Your father's remaining relatives were reduced
to poverty, and moved away from Virginia."
" What of my mother's people ? "
" They are all dead. God punished them.
They did not love your father, and did not
wish him to marry your mother. They helped
to drive him to his death."
" I am alone in the world, then, without
kith or kin," murmured Clara, " and yet,
strange to say, I am happy. If I had known
my people and lost them, I should be sad.
They are gone, but they have left me their
name and their blood. I would weep for my
poor father and mother if I were not so glad."
Just then some one struck a chord upon the
piano in the hall, and the sudden breaking of
the stillness recalled Clara's attention to the
lateness of the hour.
" I had forgotten about the class," she ex¬
claimed. " I must go and attend to them."


58
HER VIRGINIA MAMMY
They walked along the corridor and entered
the hall. Dr. Winthrop was seated at the
piano, drumming idly on the keys.
" I did not know where you had gone," he
said. " I knew you would be around, of
course, since the lights were not out, and so I
came in here to wait for you."
" Listen, John, I have a wonderful story to
tell you."
Then she told him Mrs. Harper's story.
He listened attentively and sympathetically,
at certain points taking his eyes from Clara's
face and glancing keenly at Mrs. Harper, who
was listening intently. As he looked from
one to the other he noticed the resemblance
between them, and something in his expression
caused Mrs. Harper's eyes to fall, and then
glance up appealingly.
" And now," said Clara, " I am happy. I
know my name. I am a Virginia Stafford.
I belong to one, yes, to two of what were the
first families of Virginia. John, my family is
as good as yours. If I remember my history
correctly, the Cavaliers looked down upon the
Roundheads."
" I admit my inferiority," he replied. " If
you are happy I am glad."


SEE VIRGINIA MAMMY
59
" Clara Stafford," mused the girl. " It is
a pretty name."
" You will never have to use it," her lover
declared, " for now you will take mine."
" Then I shall have nothing left of all that
I have found " —
" Except your husband," asserted Dr. Win-
throp, putting his arm around her, with an air
of assured possession.
Mrs. Harper was looking at them with
moistened eyes in which joy and sorrow, love
and gratitude, were strangely blended. Clara
put out her hand to her impulsively.
" And my mammy," she cried, " my dear
Virginia mammy."


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
Branson County, North Carolina, is in a
sequestered district of one of the staidest
and most conservative States of the Union.
Society in Branson County is almost primitive
in its simplicity. Most of the white people
own the farms they till, and even before the
war there were no very wealthy families to
force their neighbors, by comparison, into the
category of " poor whites."
To Branson County, as to most rural com¬
munities in the South, the war is the one his¬
torical event that overshadows all others. It
is the era from which all local chronicles
are dated, — births, deaths, marriages, storms,
freshets. No description of the life of any
Southern community would be perfect that
failed to emphasize the all pervading influ¬
ence of the great conflict.
Yet the fierce tide of war that had
rushed through the cities and along the great
highways of the country had comparatively


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 61
speaking but slightly disturbed the sluggish
current of life in this region, remote from
railroads and navigable streams. To the
north in Virginia, to the west in Tennessee,
and all along the seaboard the war had
raged; but the thunder of its cannon had
not disturbed the echoes of Branson County,
where the loudest sounds heard were the
crack of some hunter's rifle, the baying of
some deep-mouthed hound, or the yodel of
some tuneful negro on his way through the
pine forest. To the east, Sherman's army
had passed on its march to the sea; but
no straggling band of " bummers " had pene¬
trated the confines of Branson County. The
war, it is true, had robbed the county of the
flower of its young manhood ; but the burden
of taxation, the doubt and uncertainty of the
conflict, and the sting of ultimate defeat, had
been borne by the people with an apathy
that robbed misfortune of half its sharpness.
The nearest approach to town life afforded
by Branson County is found in the little vil¬
lage of Troy, the county seat, a hamlet with
a population of four or five hundred.
Ten years make little difference in the
appearance of these remote Southern towns.


62 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDBEN
If a railroad is built through one of them, it
infuses some enterprise; the social corpse is
galvanized by the fresh blood of civilization
that pulses along the farthest ramifications of
our great system of commercial highways.
At the period of which I write, no railroad
had come to Troy. If a traveler, accustomed
to the bustling life of cities, could have rid¬
den through Troy on a summer day, he
might easily have fancied himself in a de¬
serted village. Around him he would have
seen weather-beaten houses, innocent of paint,
the shingled roofs in many instances covered
with a rich growth of moss. Here and there
he would have met a razor-backed hog lazily
rooting his way along the principal thorough¬
fare ; and more than once be would probably
have had to disturb the slumbers of some
yellow dog, dozing away the hours in the
ardent sunshine, and reluctantly yielding up
his place in the middle of the dusty road.
On Saturdays the village presented a some¬
what livelier appearance, and the shade trees
around the court house square and along
Front Street served as hitching-posts for a
goodly number of horses and mules and
stunted oxen, belonging to the farmer-folk


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 63
wlio had come in to trade at the two or three
local stores.
A murder was a rare event in Branson
County. Every well-informed citizen could
tell the number of homicides committed in
the county for fifty years back, and whether
the slayer, in any given instance, had escaped,
either by flight or acquittal, or had suffered
the penalty of the law. So, when it became
known in Troy early one Friday morning in
summer, about ten years after the war, that
old Captain Walker, who had served in Mex¬
ico under Scott, and had left an arm on the
field of Gettysburg, had been foully murdered
during the night, there was intense excite¬
ment in the village. Business was practically
suspended, and the citizens gathered in little
groups to discuss the murder, and speculate
upon the identity of the murderer. It tran¬
spired from testimony at the coroner's inquest,
held during the morning, that a strange mu¬
latto had been seen going in the direction of
Captain Walker's house the night before, and
had been met going away from Troy early
Friday morning, by a farmer on his way to
town. Other circumstances seemed to con¬
nect the stranger with the crime. The sheriff


64 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
organized a posse to search for him, and early
in the evening, when most of the citizens of
Troy were at supper, the suspected man was
brought in and lodged in the county jail.
By the following morning the news of the
capture had spread to the farthest limits of
the county. A much larger number of peo¬
ple than usual came to town that Saturday, —
bearded men in straw hats and blue homespun
shirts, and butternut trousers of great ampli¬
tude of material and vagueness of outline;
women in homespun frocks and slat-bonnets,
with faces as expressionless as the dreary
sandhills which gave them a meagre suste¬
nance.
The murder was almost the sole topic of
conversation. A steady stream of curious
observers visited the house of mourning, and
gazed upon the rugged face of the old veteran,
now stiff and cold in death; and more than
one eye dropped a tear at the remembrance of
the cheery smile, and the joke — sometimes
superannuated, generally feeble, but always
good-natured — with which the captain had
been wont to greet his acquaintances. There
was a growing sentiment of anger among
these stern men, toward the murderer who


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 65
had thus cut down their friend, and a strong
feeling that ordinary justice was too slight a
punishment for such a crime.
Toward noon there was an informal gather¬
ing of citizens in Dan Tyson's store.
"I hear it 'lowed that Square Kyahtah's
too sick ter hoi' co'te this evenin'," said one,
" an' that the purlim'nary hearin' '11 haf ter
go over 'tel nex' week."
A look of disappointment went round the
crowd.
" Hit's the durndes', meanes' murder ever
committed in this caounty," said another, with
moody emphasis.
" I s'pose the nigger 'lowed the Cap'n had
some greenbacks," observed a third speaker.
" The Cap'n," said another, with an air of
superior information, " has left two bairls of
Confedrit money, which he 'spected 'ud be
good some day er nuther."
This statement gave rise to a discussion of
the speculative value of Confederate money ;
but in a little while the conversation returned
to the murder.
" Hangin' air too good fer the murderer,"
said one ; " he oughter be burnt, stidier bein'
hung."


66 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
There was an impressive pause at this point,
during which a jug of moonlight whiskey went
the round of the crowd.
" Well/' said a round-shouldered farmer,
who, in spite of his peaceable expression and
faded gray eye, was known to have been one
of the most daring followers of a rebel
guerrilla chieftain, " what air yer gwine ter do
about it? Ef you fellers air gwine ter set
down an' let a wuthless nigger kill the bes'
white man in Branson, an' not say nuthin' ner
do nuthin', I'll move outen the caounty."
This speech gave tone and direction to the
rest of the conversation. Whether the fear
of losing the round-shouldered farmer oper¬
ated to bring about the result or not is im¬
material to this narrative ; but, at all events,
the crowd decided to lynch the negro. They
agreed that this was the least that could be
done to avenge the death of their murdered
friend, and that it was a becoming way in
which to honor his memory. They had some
vague notions of the majesty of the law and
the rights of the citizen, but in the passion of
the moment these sunk into oblivion ; a white
man had been killed by a negro.
" The Cap'n was an ole sodger," said one


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 67
of his friends solemnly. " He '11 sleep better
when he knows that a co'te-martial has be'n
hilt an' jestice done."
By agreement the lynchers were to meet at
Tyson's store at five o'clock in the afternoon,
and proceed thence to the jail, which was
situated down the Lumberton Dirt Road (as
the old turnpike antedating the plank-road
was called), about half a mile south of the
court-house. When the preliminaries of the
lynching had been arranged, and a committee
appointed to manage the affair, the crowd
dispersed, some to go to their dinners, and
some to secure recruits for the lynching party.
It was twenty minutes to five o'clock, when
an excited negro, panting and perspiring,
rushed up to the back door of Sheriff Camp¬
bell's dwelling, which stood at a little distance
from the jail and somewhat farther than the
latter building from the court-house. A tur-
baned colored woman came to the door in re¬
sponse to the negro's knock.
" Hoddy, Sis' Nance."
" Hoddy, Brer Sam."
" Is de shurff in," inquired the negro.
" Yas, Brer Sam, he's eatin' his dinner,"
was the answer.


68 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
" Will yer ax 'im ter step ter de do' a min¬
ute, Sis' Nance ? "
The woman went into the dining-room, and
a moment later the sheriff came to the door.
He was a tall, muscular man, of a ruddier
complexion than is usual among Southerners.
A pair of keen, deep-set gray eyes looked out
from under bushy eyebrows, and about his
mouth was a masterful expression, which a
full beard, once sandy in color, but now pro¬
fusely sprinkled with gray, could not entirely
conceal. The day was hot; the sheriff had
discarded his coat and vest, and had his white
shirt open at the throat.
" What do you want, Sam ? " he inquired
of the negro, who stood hat in hand, wiping
the moisture from his face with a ragged
shirt-sleeve.
"Shurff, dey gwine ter hang de pris'ner
w'at's lock' up in de jail. Dey 're comin'
dis a-way now. I wuz layin' down on a sack
er corn down at de sto', behine a pile er flour-
bairls, w'en I hearn Doc' Cain en Kunnel
Wright talkin' erbout it. I slip' outen de
back do', en run here as fas' as I could. I
hearn you say down ter de sto' once't dat
you would n't let nobody take a pris'ner 'way


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 69
fum you widout walkin' over yo' dead body,
en I thought I'd let you know 'fo' dey come,
so yer could pertec' de pris'ner."
The sheriff Hstened calmly, but his face grew
firmer, and a determined gleam lit up his
gray eyes. His frame grew more erect, and
he unconsciously assumed the attitude of a
soldier who momentarily expects to meet the
enemy face to face.
" Much obliged, Sam," he answered. " I '11
protect the prisoner. Who's coming ? "
" I dunno who-all is comin'," replied
the negro. " Dere's Mistah McSwayne, en
Doc' Cain, en Maje' McDonal', en Kunnel
Wright, en a heap er yuthers. I wuz so
skeered I done furgot mo' d'n half un em. I
spec' dey mus' be mos' here by dis time, so
I '11 git outen de way, fer I don' want no¬
body fer ter think I wuz mix' up in dis busi¬
ness." The negro glanced nervously down
the road toward the town, and made a move¬
ment as if to go away.
"Won't you have some dinner first?"
asked the sheriff.
The negro looked longingly in at the open
door, and sniffed the appetizing odor of boiled
pork and collards.


70 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
u I ain't got no time fer ter tarry, Shurff,"
he said, "but Sis' Nance mought gin me
sump'n I could kyar in my han' en eat on de
way."
A moment later Nancy brought him a huge
sandwich of split corn-pone, with a thick slice
of fat bacon inserted between the halves, and
a couple of baked yams. The negro hastily
replaced his ragged hat on his head, dropped
the yams in the pocket of his capacious trou¬
sers, and, taking the sandwich in his hand,
hurried across the road and disappeared in
the woods beyond.
The sheriff reentered the house, and put
on his coat and hat. He then took down a
double-barreled shotgun and loaded it with
buckshot. Filling the chambers of a revolver
with fresh cartridges, he slipped it into the
pocket of the sack-coat which he wore.
A comely young woman in a calico dress
watched these proceedings with anxious sur¬
prise.
" Where are you going, father ?" she
asked. She had not heard the conversation
with the negro.
"I am goin' over to the jail," responded
the sheriff. " There's a mob comin' this way


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 71
to lynch the nigger we've got locked up.
But they won't do it," he added, with em¬
phasis.
" Oh, father! don't go!" pleaded the girl,
clinging to his arm; " they'll shoot you if you
don't give him up."
"You never mind me, Polly," said her
father reassuringly, as he gently unclasped
her hands from his arm. " I '11 take care of
myself and the prisoner, too. There ain't a
man in Branson County that would shoot me.
Besides, I have faced fire too often to be
scared away from my duty. You keep close
in the house," he continued, " and if any one
disturbs you just use the old horse-pistol in the
top bureau drawer. It's a little old-fashioned,
but it did good work a few years ago."
The young girl shuddered at this sanguin¬
ary allusion, but made no further objection to
her father's departure.
The sheriff of Branson was a man far
above the average of the community in
wealth, education, and social position. His
had been one of the few families in the
county that before the war had owned large
estates and numerous slaves. He had gradu¬
ated at the State University at Chapel Hill,


72 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
and had kept up some acquaintance with cur¬
rent literature and advanced thought. He
had traveled some in his youth, and was
looked up to in the county as an authority on
all subjects connected with the outer world.
At first an ardent supporter of the Union, he
had opposed the secession movement in his
native State as long as opposition availed to
stem the tide of public opinion. Yielding at
last to the force of circumstances, he had en¬
tered the Confederate service rather late in
the war, and served with distinction through
several campaigns, rising in time to the rank
of colonel. After the war he had taken the
oath of allegiance, and had been chosen by
the people as the most available candidate for
the office of sheriff, to which he had been
elected without opposition. He had filled the
office for several terms, and was universally
popular with his constituents.
Colonel or Sheriff Campbell, as he was in¬
differently called, as the military or civil title
happened to be most important in the opin¬
ion of the person addressing him, had a high
sense of the responsibility attaching to his
office. He had sworn to do his duty faith¬
fully, and he knew what his duty was, as


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 73
sheriff, perhaps more clearly than he had ap¬
prehended it in other passages of his life.
It was, therefore, with no uncertainty in
regard to his course that he prepared his
weapons and went over to the jail. He had
no fears for Polly's safety.
The sheriff had just locked the heavy front
door of the jail behind him when a half dozen
horsemen, followed by a crowd of men on
foot, came round a bend in the road and
drew near the jail. They halted in front of
the picket fence that surrounded the build¬
ing, while several of the committee of ar¬
rangements rode on a few rods farther to the
sheriff's house. One of them dismounted
and rapped on the door with his riding-whip.
" Is the sheriff at home ? " he inquired.
"No, he has just gone out," replied Polly,
who had come to the door.
"We want the jail keys," he continued.
" They are not here," said Polly. " The
sheriff has them himself." Then she added,
with assumed indifference, " He is at the jail
now."
The man turned away, and Polly went into
the front room, from which she peered anx¬
iously between the slats of the green blinds


74 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
of a window that looked toward the jail.
Meanwhile the messenger returned to his
companions and announced his discovery. It
looked as though the sheriff had learned of
their design and was preparing to resist it.
One of them stepped forward and rapped
on the jail door.
" Well, what is it? " said the sheriff, from
within.
"We want to talk to you, Sheriff," replied
the spokesman.
There was a little wicket in the door; this
the sheriff opened, and answered through it.
" All right, boys, talk away. You are all
strangers to me, and I don't know what busi¬
ness you can have." The sheriff did not
think it necessary to recognize anybody in
particular on such an occasion; the question
of identity sometimes comes up in the inves¬
tigation of these extra-judicial executions.
"We're a committee of citizens and we
want to get into the jail."
" What for ? It ain't much trouble to get
into jail. Most people want to keep out."
The mob was in no humor to appreciate
a joke, and the sheriff's witticism fell dead
upon an unresponsive audience.


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 75
"We want to have a talk with the nigger
that killed Cap'n Walker."
" You can talk to that nigger in the court¬
house, when he's brought out for trial. Court
will be in session here next week. I know
what you fellows want, but you can't get my
prisoner to-day. Do you want to take the
bread out of a poor man's mouth? I get
seventy-five cents a day for keeping this pris¬
oner, and he's the only one in jail. I can't
have my family suffer just to please you
fellows."
One or two young men in the crowd
laughed at the idea of Sheriff Campbell's
suffering for want of seventy-five cents a
day; but they were frowned into silence by
those who stood near them.
" Ef yer don't let us in," cried a voice,
" we '11 buV the do' open."
" Bust away," answered the sheriff, raising
his voice so that all could hear. "But I
give you fair warning. The first man that
tries it will be filled with buckshot. I'm
sheriff of this county; I know my duty, and
I mean to do it."
" What's the use of kicking, Sheriff ?"
argued one of the leaders of the mob. " The


76 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
nigger is sure to hang anyhow; he richly
deserves it; and we 've got to do something
to teach the niggers their places, or white
people won't be able to live in the county."
" There's no use talking, boys," responded
the sheriff. " I'm a white man outside, but
in this jail I'm sheriff; and if this nigger 's
to be hung in this county, I propose to do
the hanging. So you fellows might as well
right-about-face, and march back to Troy.
You've had a pleasant trip, and the exercise
will be good for you. You know me. I've
got powder and ball, and I've faced fire
before now, with nothing between me and
the enemy, and I don't mean to surrender
this jail while I'm able to shoot." Having
thus announced his determination, the sheriff
closed and fastened the wicket, and looked
around for the best position from which to
defend the building.
The crowd drew off a little, and the leaders
conversed together in low tones.
The Branson County jail was a small, two-
story brick building, strongly constructed,
with no attempt at architectural ornamenta¬
tion. Each story was divided into two large
cells by a passage running from front to rear.


"WE'LL BU'S' THE DO' OPEN"





THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 77
A grated iron door gave entrance from the
passage to each of the four cells. The jail
seldom had many prisoners in it, and the
lower windows had been boarded up. When
the sheriff had closed the wicket, he ascended
the steep wooden stairs to the upper floor.
There was no window at the front of the upper
passage, and the most available position from
which to watch the movements of the crowd
below was the front window of the cell occu¬
pied by the solitary prisoner.
The sheriff unlocked the door and entered
the cell. The prisoner was crouched in a cor¬
ner, his yellow face, blanched with terror,
looking ghastly in the semi-darkness of the
room. A cold perspiration had gathered on
his forehead, and his teeth were chattering
with affright.
" For God's sake, Sheriff," he murmured
hoarsely, te don't let 'em lynch me; I did n't
kill the old man."
The sheriff glanced at the cowering wretch
with a look of mingled contempt and loathing.
" Get up," he said sharply. " You will
probably be hung sooner or later, but it shall
not be to-day, if I can help it. I '11 unlock
your fetters, and if I can't hold the jail, you '11


78 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
have to make the best fight you can. If I'm
shot, I '11 consider my responsibility at an
end."
There were iron fetters on the prisoner's
ankles, and handcuffs on his wrists. These
the sheriff unlocked, and they fell clanking
to the floor.
" Keep back from the window," said the
sheriff. " They might shoot if they saw you."
The sheriff drew toward the window a pine
bench which formed a part of the scanty fur¬
niture of the cell, and laid his revolver upon
it. Then he took his gun in hand, and took
his stand at the side of the window where he
could with least exposure of himself watch the
movements of the crowd below.
The lynchers had not anticipated any deter¬
mined resistance. Of course they had looked
for a formal protest, and perhaps a sufficient
show of opposition to excuse the sheriff in
the eye of any stickler for legal formalities.
They had not however come prepared to fight
a battle, and no one of them seemed will¬
ing to lead an attack upon the jail. The
leaders of the party conferred together with a
good deal of animated gesticulation, which
was visible to the sheriff from his outlook,


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 79
though the distance was too great for him to
hear what was said. At length one of them
broke away from the group, and rode back to
the main body of the lynchers, who were rest¬
lessly awaiting orders.
" Well, boys," said the messenger, " we '11
have to let it go for the present. The sheriff
says he '11 shoot, and he's got the drop on
us this time. There ain't any of us that
want to follow Cap'n Walker jest yet. Be¬
sides, the sheriff is a good fellow, and we don't
want to hurt 'im. But," he added, as if to
reassure the crowd, which began to show signs
of disappointment, " the nigger might as well
say his prayers, for he ain't got long to live."
There was a murmur of dissent from the
mob, and several voices insisted that an attack
be made on the jail. But pacific counsels
finally prevailed, and the mob sullenly with¬
drew.
The sheriff stood at the window until they
had disappeared around the bend in the road.
He did not relax his watchfulness when the
last one was out of sight. Their withdrawal
might be a mere feint, to be followed by a
further attempt. So closely, indeed, was his
attention drawn to the outside, that he neither


80 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
saw nor heard the prisoner creep stealthily
across the floor, reach out his hand and secure
the revolver which lay on the bench behind
the sheriff, and creep as noiselessly back to his
place in the corner of the room.
A moment after the last of the lynching
party had disappeared there was a shot fired
from the woods across the road; a bullet
whistled by the window and buried itself in
the wooden casing a few inches from where
the sheriff was standing. Quick as thought,
with the instinct born of a semi-guerrilla army
experience, he raised his gun and fired twice
at the point from which a faint puff of smoke
showed the hostile bullet to have been sent.
He stood a moment watching, and then rested
his gun against the window, and reached be¬
hind him mechanically for the other weapon.
It was not on the bench. As the sheriff real¬
ized this fact, he turned his head and looked
into the muzzle of the revolver.
" Stay where you are, Sheriff," said the
prisoner, his eyes glistening, his faee almost
ruddy with excitement.
The sheriff mentally cursed his own care¬
lessness for allowing him to be caught in such
a predicament. He had not expected anything


82 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
life, but for how long ? When you came in,
you said Court would sit next week. When
the crowd went away they said I had not long
to live. It is merely a choice of two ropes."
" While there's life there's hope," replied
the sheriff. He uttered this commonplace
mechanically, while his brain was busy in try¬
ing to think out some way of escape. " If
you are innocent you can prove it."
The mulatto kept his eye upon the sheriff.
" I did n't kill the old man," he replied;
"but I shall never be able to clear myself.
I was at his house at nine o'clock. I stole
from it the coat that was on my back when I
was taken. I would be convicted, even with
a fair trial, unless the real murderer were dis¬
covered beforehand."
The sheriff knew this only too well. While
he was thinking what argument next to use,
the prisoner continued: —
" Throw me the keys — no, unlock the
door."
The sheriff stood a moment irresolute.
The mulatto's eye glittered ominously. The
sheriff crossed the room and unlocked the
door leading into the passage.
" Now go down and unlock the outside
door."


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 83
The heart of the sheriff leaped within him.
Perhaps he might make a dash for liberty,
and gain the outside. He descended the
narrow stairs, the prisoner keeping close be¬
hind him.
The sheriff inserted the huge iron key into
the lock. The rusty bolt yielded slowly. It
still remained for him to pull the door open.
" Stop! " thundered the mulatto, who
seemed to divine the sheriff's purpose. "Move
a muscle, and I '11 blow your brains out."
The sheriff obeyed; he realized that his
chance had not yet come.
"Now keep on that side of the passage,
and go back upstairs."
Keeping the sheriff under cover of the re¬
volver, the mulatto followed him up the stairs.
The sheriff expected the prisoner to lock him
into the cell and make his own escape. He
had about come to the conclusion that the best
thins: he could do under the circumstances
was to submit quietly, and take his chances
of recapturing the prisoner after the alarm
had been given. The sheriff had faced death
more than once upon the battlefield. A few
minutes before, well armed, and with a brick
wall between him and them he had dared a


84 THE SHERIFFS CHILDREN
hundred men to fight; but he felt instinc¬
tively that the desperate man confronting him
was not to be trifled with, and he was too
prudent a man to risk his life against such
heavy odds. He had Polly to look after, and
there was a limit beyond which devotion to
duty would be quixotic and even foolish.
" I want to get away," said the prisoner,
" and I don't want to be captured; for if I
am I know I will be hung on the spot. I
am afraid," he added somewhat reflectively,
u that in order to save myself I shall have to
kill you."
" Good God!" exclaimed the sheriff in
involuntary terror; " you would not kill the
man to whom you owe your own life."
" You speak more truly than you know,"
replied the mulatto. " I indeed owe my life
to you."
The sheriff started. He was capable of
surprise, even in that moment of extreme
peril. " Who are you?" he asked in amaze¬
ment.
" Tom, Cicely's son," returned the other.
He had closed the door and stood talking
to the sheriff through the grated opening.
" Don't you remember Cicely — Cicely whom


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 85
you sold, with her child, to the speculator on
his way to Alabama ? "
The sheriff did remember. He had been
sorry for it many a time since. It had been
the old story of debts, mortgages, and bad
crops. He had quarreled with the mother.
The price offered for her and her child had
been unusually large, and he had yielded
to the combination of anger and pecuniary
stress.
" Good God! " he gasped, " you would
not murder your own father ? "
" My father ? " replied the mulatto. " It
'were well enough for me to claim the relation¬
ship, but it comes with poor grace from you
to ask anything by reason of it. What
father's duty have you ever performed for
me? Did you give me your name, or even
your protection ? Other white men gave their
colored sons freedom and money, and sent
them to the free States. You sold me to the
rice swamps."
" I at least gave you the life you cling to,"
murmured the sheriff.
" Life ? " said the prisoner, with a sarcastic
laugh. "What kind of a life? You gave
me your own blood, your own features, — no


86 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
man need look at us together twice to see
that, — and you gave me a black mother.
Poor wretch ! She died under the lash, be¬
cause she had enough womanhood to call her
soul her own. You gave me a white man's
spirit, and you made me a slave, and crushed
it out."
" But you are free now," said the sheriff.
He had not doubted, could not doubt, the
mulatto's word. He knew whose passions
coursed beneath that swarthy skin and burned
in the black eyes opposite his own. He saw
in this mulatto what he himself might have
become hadT not the safeguards of parental
restraint and public opinion been thrown
around him.
" Free to do what ? " replied the mulatto.
" Free in name, but despised and scorned and
set aside by the people to whose race I belong
far more than to my mother's."
" There are schools," said the sheriff. " You
have been to school." He had noticed that
the mulatto spoke more eloquently and used
better language than most Branson County
people.
" I have been to school, and dreamed when
I went that it would work some marvelous


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 87
change in my condition. But what did I
learn ? I learned to feel that no degree of
learning or wisdom will change the color of
my skin and that I shall always wear what in
my own country is a badge of degradation.
When I think about it seriously I do not care
particularly for such a life. It is the animal
in me, not the man, that flees the gallows.
I owe you nothing," he went on, " and expect
nothing of you; and it would be no more
than justice if I should avenge upon you my
mother's wrongs and my own. But still I
hate to shoot you; I have never yet taken
human life — for I did not kill the old cap¬
tain. Will you promise to give no alarm and
make no attempt to capture me until morn¬
ing, if I do not shoot ? "
So absorbed were the two men in their col¬
loquy and their own tumultuous thoughts
that neither of them had heard the door below
move upon its hinges. Neither of them had
heard a light step come stealthily up the stairs,
nor seen a slender form creep along the dark¬
ening passage toward the mulatto.
The sheriff hesitated. The struggle be¬
tween his love of life and his sense of duty
was a terrific one. It may seem strange that


90 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
woods. It would do you no good to have it
known that you were shot while attempting
to escape."
The prisoner uttered no word of thanks or
apology, but sat in sullen silence. When the
wounded arm had been bandaged, Polly and
her father returned to the house.
The sheriff was in an unusually thoughtful
mood that evening. He put salt in his coffee
at supper, and poured vinegar over his pan¬
cakes. To many of Polly's questions he re¬
turned random answers. When he had gone
to bed he lay awake for several hours.
In the silent watches of the night, when he
was alone with God, there came into his mind
a flood of unaccustomed thoughts. An hour
or two before, standing face to face with
death, he had experienced a sensation similar
to that which drowning men are said to feel
— a kind of clarifying of the moral faculty,
in which the veil of the flesh, with its obscur¬
ing passions and prejudices, is pushed aside
for a moment, and all tke acts of one's life
stand out, in the clear light of truth, in their
correct proportions and relations, — a state of
mind in which one sees himself as God may
be supposed to see him. In the reaction


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 91
following his rescue, this feeling had given
place for a time to far different emotions.
But now, in the silence of midnight, some¬
thing of this clearness of spirit returned to
the sheriff. He saw that he had owed some
duty to this son of his,— that neither law nor
custom could destroy a responsibility inherent
in the nature of mankind. He could not
thus, in the eyes of God at least, shake off the
consequences of his sin. Had he never sinned,
this wayward spirit would never have come
back from the vanished past to haunt him.
As these thoughts came, his anger against
the mulatto died away, and in its place there
sprang up a great pity. The hand of paren¬
tal authority might have restrained the pas¬
sions he had seen burning in the prisoner's
eyes when the desperate man spoke the words
which had seemed to doom his father to death.
The sheriff felt that he might have saved this
fiery spirit from the slough of slavery; that
he might have sent him to the free North,
and given him there, or in some other land,
an opportunity to turn to usefulness and honor¬
able pursuits the talents that had run to crime,
perhaps to madness ; he might, still less, have
given this son of his the poor simulacrum of


92 THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN
liberty which men of his caste could possess
in a slave-holding community ; or least of all,
but still something, he might have kept the
boy on the plantation, where the burdens of
slavery would have fallen lightly upon him.
The sheriff recalled his own youth. He
had inherited an honored name to keep un¬
tarnished ; he had had a future to make ; the
picture of a fair young bride had beckoned
him on to happiness. The poor wretch now
stretched upon a pallet of straw between the
brick walls of the jail had had none of these
things, — no name, no father, no mother —
in the true meaning of motherhood, — and un¬
til the past few years no possible future, and
then one vague and shadowy in its outline,
and dependent for form and substance upon
the slow solution of a problem in which there
were many unknown quantities.
From what he might have done to what he
might yet do was an easy transition for the
awakened conscience of the sheriff. It oc¬
curred to him, purely as a hypothesis, that he
might permit his prisoner to escape ; but his
oath of office, his duty as sheriff, stood in the
way of such a course, and the sheriff dis¬
missed the idea from his mind. He could,
however, investigate the circumstances of the


THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN 93
murder, and move Heaven and earth to discover
the real criminal, for he no longer doubted the
prisoner's innocence ; he could employ counsel
for the accused, and perhaps influence public
opinion in his favor. An acquittal once
secured, some plan could be devised by which
the sheriff might in some degree atone for his
crime against this son of his — against society
— against God.
When the sheriff had reached this con¬
clusion he fell into an unquiet slumber, from
which he awoke late the next morning.
He went over to the jail before breakfast
and found the prisoner lying on his pallet,
his face turned to the wall; he did not move
when the sheriff rattled the door.
" Good-morning," said the latter, in a tone
intended to waken the prisoner.
There was no response. The sheriff looked
more keenly at the recumbent figure; there
was an unnatural rigidity about its attitude.
He hastily unlocked the door and, entering
the cell, bent over the prostrate form. There
was no sound of breathing; he turned the
body over — it was cold and stiff. The pris¬
oner had torn the bandage from his wound
and bled to death during the night. He had
evidently been dead several hours.


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
I
" What our country needs most in its treat¬
ment of the race problem," observed Mr.
Cicero Clayton at one of the monthly meetings
of the Blue Vein Society, of which he was a
prominent member, "is a clearer conception
of the brotherhood of man."
The same sentiment in much the same
words had often fallen from Mr. Clayton's
lips, — so often, in fact, that the younger
members of the society sometimes spoke of
him — among themselves of course — as
" Brotherhood Clayton." The sobriquet
derived its point from the application he
made of the principle involved in this oft-
repeated proposition.
The fundamental article of Mr. Clayton's
social creed was that he himself was not a
negro.
" I know," he would say, " that the white
people lump us all together as negroes, and


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 95
condemn us all to the same social ostracism.
But I don't accept this classification, for my
part, and I imagine that, as the chief party
in interest, I have a right to my opinion.
People who belong by half or more of their
blood to the most virile and progressive race
of modern times have as much right to call
themselves white as others have to call them
negroes."
Mr. Clayton spoke warmly, for he was well
informed, and had thought much upon the
subject; too much, indeed, for he had not
been able to escape entirely the tendency of
too much concentration upon one subject to
make even the clearest minds morbid.
" Of course we can't enforce our claims, or
protect ourselves from being robbed of our
birthright; but we can at least have princi¬
ples, and try to live up to them the best we
can. If we are not accepted as white, we can
at any rate make it clear that we object to
being called black. Our protest cannot fail
in time to impress itself upon the better class
of white people; for the Anglo-Saxon race
loves justice, and will eventually do it, where
it does not conflict with their own interests."
Whether or not the fact that Mr. Clayton


96 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
meant no sarcasm, and was conscious of no
inconsistency in this eulogy, tended to estab¬
lish the racial identity he claimed may safely
be left to the discerning reader.
In living up to his creed Mr. Clayton de¬
clined to associate to any considerable extent
with black people. This was sometimes a
little inconvenient, and occasionally involved
a sacrifice of some pleasure for himself and
his family, because they would not attend en¬
tertainments where many black people were
likely to be present. But they had a social
refuge in a little society of people like them¬
selves ; they attended, too, a church, of which
nearly all the members were white, and they
were connected with a number of the religious
and benevolent associations open to all good
citizens, where they came into contact with
the better class of white people, and were
treated, in their capacity of members, with
a courtesy and consideration scarcely differ¬
ent from that accorded to other citizens.
Mr. Clayton's racial theory was not only
logical enough, but was in his own case backed
up by substantial arguments. He had begun
life with a small patrimony, and had invested
his money in a restaurant, which by careful


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 97
and judicious attention had grown from a
cheap eating-house into the most popular and
successful confectionery and catering estab¬
lishment in Groveland. His business occupied
a double store on Oakwood Avenue. He
owned houses and lots, and stocks and bonds,
had good credit at the banks, and lived in a
style befitting his income and business stand¬
ing. In person he was of olive complexion,
with slightly curly hair. His features ap¬
proached the Cuban or Latin-American type
rather than the familiar broad characteris¬
tics of the mulatto, this suggestion of some¬
thing foreign being heightened by a Vandyke
beard and a carefully waxed and pointed
mustache. When he walked to church on
Sunday mornings with his daughter Alice,
they were a couple of such striking appearance
as surely to attract attention.
Miss Alice Clayton was queen of her social
set. She was young, she was handsome. She
was nearly white; she frankly confessed her
sorrow that she was not entirely so. She was
accomplished and amiable, dressed in good
taste, and had for her father by all odds the
richest colored man — the term is used with
apologies to Mr. Clayton, explaining that it


98 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
does not necessarily mean a negro — in Grove-
land. So pronounced was her superiority that
really she had but one social rival worthy of
the name, — Miss Lura Watkins, whose fa¬
ther kept a prosperous livery stable and lived
in almost as good style as the Claytons. Miss
Watkins, while good-looking enough, was not
so young nor quite so white as Miss Clayton.
She was popular, however, among their mu¬
tual acquaintances, and there was a good-
natured race between the two as to which
should make the first and best marriage.
Marriages among Miss Clayton's set were
serious affairs. Of course marriage is always
a serious matter, whether it be a success or a
failure, and there are those who believe that
any marriage is better than no marriage. But
among Miss Clayton's friends and associates
matrimony took on an added seriousness be¬
cause of the very narrow limits within which
it could take place. Miss Clayton and her
friends, by reason of their assumed superiority
to black people, or perhaps as much by rea¬
son of a somewhat morbid shrinking from the
curiosity manifested toward married people of
strongly contrasting colors, would not marry
black men, and except in rare instances white


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 99
men would not marry them. They were
therefore restricted for a choice to the young
men of their own complexion. But these,
unfortunately for the girls, had a wider choice.
In any State where the laws permit freedom
of the marriage contract, a man, by virtue of
his sex, can find a wife of whatever complexion
he prefers; of course he must not always ask
too much in other respects, for most women
like to better their social position when they
marry. To the number thus lost by " going
on the other side," as the phrase went, add
the worthless contingent whom no self-respect¬
ing woman would marry, and the choice was
still further restricted; so that it had become
fashionable, when the supply of eligible men
ran short, for those of Miss Clayton's set who
could afford it to go traveling, ostensibly for
pleasure, but with the serious hope that they
might meet their fate away from home.
Miss Clayton had perhaps a larger option
than any of her associates. Among such men
as there were she could have taken her choice.
Her beauty, her position, her accomplishments,
her father's wealth, all made her eminently
desirable. But, on the other hand, the same
things rendered her more difficult to reach, and


100 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
harder to please. To get access to her heart,
too, it was necessary to run the gauntlet of
her parents, which, until she had reached the
age of twenty-three, no one had succeeded in
doing safely. Many had called, but none had
been chosen.
There was, however, one spot left un¬
guarded, and through it Cupid, a veteran
sharpshooter, sent a dart. Mr. Clayton had
taken into his service and into his household
a poor relation, a sort of cousin several times
removed. This boy — his name was Jack —
had gone into Mr. Clayton's service at a very
youthful age, — twelve or thirteen. He had
helped about the housework, washed the
dishes, swept the floors, taken care of the
lawn and the stable for three or four years,
while he attended school. His cousin had
then taken him into the store, where he had
swept the floor, washed the windows, and done
a class of work that kept fully impressed upon
him the fact that he was a poor dependent.
Nevertheless he was a cheerful lad, who took
what he could get and was properly grateful,
but always meant to get more. By sheer force
of industry and affability and shrewdness, he
forced his employer to promote him in time


102 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
Miss Alice had considered the joke a very
poor one when first made, but by occasional
repetition she became somewhat familiar with
it. In time it got around to Jack himself, to
whom it seemed no joke at all. He had long
considered it a consummation devoutly to be
wished, and when he became aware that the
possibility of such a match had occurred to the
other parties in interest, he made up his mind
that the idea should in due course of time
become an accomplished fact. He had even
suggested as much to Alice, in a casual way,
to feel his ground; and while she had treated
the matter lightly, he was not without hope
that she had been impressed by the suggestion.
Before he had had time, however, to follow
up this lead, Miss Clayton, in the spring of
187-, went away on a visit to Washington.
The occasion of her visit was a presidential
inauguration. The new President owed his
nomination mainly to the votes of the South¬
ern delegates in the convention, and was be¬
lieved to be correspondingly well disposed to
the race from which the Southern delegates
were for the most part recruited. Friends
of rival and unsuccessful candidates for the
nomination had more than hinted that the


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 103
Southern delegates were very substantially
rewarded for their support at the time when
it was given; whether this was true or not
the parties concerned know best. At any rate
the colored politicians did not see it in that
light, for they were gathered from near and
far to press their claims for recognition and
patronage. On the evening following the
White House inaugural ball, the colored peo¬
ple of Washington gave an "inaugural" ball
at a large public hall. It was under the man¬
agement of their leading citizens, among them
several high officials holding over from the last
administration, and a number of professional
and business men. This ball was the most
noteworthy social event that colored circles up
to that time had ever known. There were
many visitors from various parts of the coun¬
try. Miss Clayton attended the ball, the
honors of which she carried away easily. She
danced with several partners, and was intro¬
duced to innumerable people whom she had
never seen before, and whom she hardly ex¬
pected ever to meet again. She went away
from the ball, at four o'clock in the morning,
in a glow of triumph, and with a confused
impression of senators and representatives and


104 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
lawyers and doctors of all shades, who had
sought an introduction, led her through the
dance, and overwhelmed her with compliments.
She returned home the next day but one, after
the most delightful week of her life.
II
One afternoon, about three weeks after
her return from Washington, Alice received
a letter through the mail. The envelope
bore the words " House of Representatives "
printed in one corner, and in the opposite
corner, in a bold running hand, a Con¬
gressman's frank, " Hamilton M. Brown,
M. C. " The letter read as follows : —
House of Representatives,
Washington, D. C., March 30, 187-.
Miss Alice Clayton, Grovel and.
Dear Friend (if I may be permitted to call
you so after so brief an acquaintance), — I
remember with sincerest pleasure our recent
meeting at the inaugural ball, and the sen¬
sation created by your beauty, your amiable
manners, and your graceful dancing. Time
has so strengthened the impression I then
received, that I should have felt inconsolable


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 105
had I thought it impossible ever to again
behold the charms which had brightened the
occasion of our meeting and eclipsed by their
brilliancy the leading belles of the capital.
I had hoped, however, to have the pleasure of
meeting you again, and circumstances have
fortunately placed it in my power to do so at
an early date. You have doubtless learned
that the contest over the election in the Sixth
Congressional District of South Carolina has
been decided in my favor, and that I now
have the honor of representing my native
State at the national capital. I have just
been appointed a member of a special com¬
mittee to visit and inspect the Sault River and
the Straits of Mackinac, with reference to
the needs of lake navigation. I have made
arrangements to start a week ahead of the
other members of the committee, whom I am
to meet in Detroit on the 20th. I shall leave
here on the 2d, and will arrive in Groveland
on the 3d, by the 7.30 evening express. I
shall remain in Groveland several days, in the
course of which I shall be pleased to call, and
renew the acquaintance so auspiciously begun
in Washington, which it is my fondest hope
may ripen into a warmer friendship.


106 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
If you do not regard my visit as presump¬
tuous, and do not write me in the mean while
forbidding it, I shall do myself the pleasure
of waiting on you the morning after my arri¬
val in Groveland.
With renewed expressions of my sincere
admiration and profound esteem, I remain,
Sincerely yours,
Hamilton M. Brown, M. C.
To Alice, and especially to her mother,
this bold and flowery letter had very nearly
the force of a formal declaration. They read
it over again and again, and spent most of
the afternoon discussing it. There were few
young men in Groveland eligible as husbands
for so superior a person as Alice Clayton, and
an addition to the number would be very
acceptable. But the mere fact of his being
a Congressman was not sufficient to qualify
him; there were other considerations.
"I'venever heard of this Honorable Hamil¬
ton M. Brown," said Mr. Clayton. The letter
had been laid before him at the supper-table.
" It's strange, Alice, that you have n't said
anything about him before. You must have
met lots of swell folks not to recollect a Con¬
gressman."


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 107
e< But he was n't a Congressman then," an¬
swered Alice; " he was only a claimant. I
remember Senator Bruce, and Mr. Douglass;
but there were so many doctors and lawyers
and politicians that I could n't keep track of
them all. Still I have a faint impression of
a Mr. Brown who danced with me."
She went into the parlor and brought out
the dancing programme she had used at the
Washington ball. She had decorated it with
a bow of blue ribbon and preserved it as
a souvenir of her visit.
"Yes," she said, after examining it, "I
must have danced with him. Here are the
initials —4 H. M. B.' "
" What color is he ? " asked Mr. Clayton,
as he plied his knife and fork.
" I have a notion that he was rather
dark — darker than any one I had ever
danced with before."
" Why did you dance with him ? " asked
her father. " You were n't obliged to go
back on your principles because you were
away from home."
" Well, father, i when you 're in Rome'
— you know the rest. Mrs. Clearweather
introduced me to several dark men, to him


108 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
among others. They were her friends, and
common decency required me to be courteous."
" If this man is black, we don't want to
encourage him. If he's the right sort, we '11
invite him to the house."
" And make him feel at home," added
Mrs. Clayton, on hospitable thoughts intent.
"We must ask Sadler about him to-mor¬
row," said Mr. Clayton, when he had drunk
his coffee and lighted his cigar. " If he's
the right man he shall have cause to remem¬
ber his visit to Groveland. We '11 show him
that Washington is not the only town on
earth."
The uncertainty of the family with regard
to Mr. Brown was soon removed. Mr. Solo¬
mon Sadler, who was supposed to know every¬
thing worth knowing concerning the colored
race, and everybody of importance connected
with it, dropped in after supper to make an
evening call. Sadler was familiar with the
history of every man of negro ancestry who
had distinguished himself in any walk of life.
He could give the pedigree of Alexander
Pushkin, the titles of scores of Dumas's nov¬
els (even Sadler had not time to learn them
all), and could recite the whole of Wendell


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 109
Phillips's lecture on Toussaint l'Ouverture.
He claimed a personal acquaintance with Mr.
Frederick Douglass, and had been often in
Washington, where he was well known and
well received in good colored society.
" Let me see," he said reflectively, when
asked for information about the Honorable
Hamilton M. Brown. " Yes, I think I know
him. He studied at Oberlin just after the
war. He was about leaving there when I
entered. There were two H. M. Browns
there — a Hamilton M. Brown and a Henry
M. Brown. One was stout and dark and the
other was slim and quite light; you could
scarcely tell him from a dark white man.
They used to call them i light Brown ' and
6 dark Brown.' I did n't know either of them
except by sight, for they were there only a
few weeks after I went in. As I remember
them, Hamilton was the fair one — a very
good-looking, gentlemanly fellow, and, as I
heard, a good student and a fine speaker."
66 Do you remember what kind of hair he
had ? " asked Mr. Clayton.
" Very good indeed; straight, as I remem¬
ber it. He looked something like a Spaniard
or a Portuguese."


110 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
" Now that you describe him/' said Alice,
" I remember quite well dancing with such a
gentleman ; and I'm wrong about my 4 H. M.
B.' The dark man must have been some one
else ; there are two others on my card that I
can't remember distinctly, and he was prob¬
ably one of those."
" I guess he's all right, Alice," said her
father when Sadler had gone away. "He
evidently means business, and we must treat
him white. Of course he must stay with us;
there are no hotels in Groveland while he is
here. Let's see—he'll be here in three
days. That is n't very long, but I guess we
can get ready. I '11 write a letter this after¬
noon — or you write it, and invite him to the
house, and say I '11 meet him at the depot.
And you may have carte blanche for making
the preparations."
"We must have some people to meet him."
" Certainly ; a reception is the proper thing.
Sit down immediately and write the letter
and I '11 mail it first thing in the morning, so
he '11 get it before he has time to make other
arrangements. And you and your mother
put your heads together and make out a
list of guests, and I '11 have the invitations


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 111
printed to-morrow. We will show the darkeys
of Groveland how to entertain a Congress¬
man."
It will be noted that in moments of abstrac¬
tion or excitement Mr. Clayton sometimes
relapsed into forms of speech not entirely
consistent with his principles. But some
allowance must be made for his atmosphere;
he could no more escape from it than the
leopard can change his spots, or the— In
deference to Mr. Clayton's feelings the quo¬
tation will be left incomplete.
Alice wrote the letter on the spot and it
was duly mailed, and sped on its winged way
to Washington.
The preparations for the reception were
made as thoroughly and elaborately as possible
on so short a notice. The invitations were
issued; the house was cleaned from attic to
cellar; an orchestra was engaged for the
evening; elaborate floral decorations were
planned and the flowers ordered. Even the
refreshments, which ordinarily, in the house¬
hold of a caterer, would be mere matter of
familiar detail, became a subject of serious
consultation and study.
The approaching event was a matter of


A MATTEB OF PRINCIPLE 113
panied by Jack, entered the livery carriage
waiting at his gate and ordered the coachman
to drive to the Union Depot. He had taken
Jack along, partly for company, and partly
that Jack might relieve the Congressman o£
any trouble about his baggage, and make
himself useful in case of emergency. Jack
was willing enough to go, for he had foreseen
in the visitor a rival for Alice's hand, — in¬
deed he had heard more or less of the subject
for several days, — and was glad to make a
reconnaissance before the enemy arrived upon
the field of battle. He had made — at least
he had thought so — considerable progress
with Alice during the three weeks since her
return from Washington, and once or twice
Alice had been perilously near the tender
stage. This visit had disturbed the situation
and threatened to ruin his chances; but he
did not mean to give up without a struggle.
Arrived at the main entrance, Mr. Clayton
directed the carriage to wait, and entered the
station with Jack. The Union Depot at
Groveland was an immense oblong structure,
covering a dozen parallel tracks and furnishing
terminal passenger facilities for half a dozen
railroads. The tracks ran east and west, and


114 A MATT EE OF PRINCIPLE
the depot was entered from the south, at
about the middle of the building. On either
side of the entrance, the waiting-rooms, re¬
freshment rooms, baggage and express depart¬
ments, and other administrative offices, ex¬
tended in a row for the entire length of the
building; and beyond them and parallel with
them stretched a long open space, separated
from the tracks by an iron fence or grille.
There were two entrance gates in the fence,
at which tickets must be shown before access
could be had to trains, and two other gates,
by which arriving passengers came out.
Mr. Clayton looked at the blackboard on
the wall underneath the station clock, and
observed that the 7.30 train from Washing¬
ton was five minutes late. Accompanied by
Jack he walked up and down the platform
until the train, with the usual accompaniment
of panting steam and clanging bell and rum¬
bling trucks, pulled into the station, and drew
up on the third or fourth track from the iron
railing. Mr. Clayton stationed himself at the
gate nearest the rear end of the train, reason¬
ing that the Congressman would ride in a par¬
lor car, and would naturally come out by the
gate nearest the point at which he left the
train.


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 115
" You'd better go and stand by the other
gate, Jack," he said to his companion, "and
stop him if he goes out that way."
The train was well filled and a stream of
passengers poured through. Mr. Clayton
scanned the crowd carefully as they ap¬
proached the gate, and scrutinized each pas¬
senger as he came through, without seeing
any one that met the description of Congress¬
man Brown, as given by Sadler, or any one
that could in his opinion be the gentleman
for whom he was looking. When the last
one had passed through he was left to the
conclusion that his expected guest had gone
out by the other gate. Mr. Clayton hastened
thither.
"Didn't he come out this way, Jack?" he
asked.
" No, sir," replied the young man, " I
have n't seen him."
" That's strange," mused Mr. Clayton,
somewhat anxiously. " He would hardly fail
to come without giving us notice. Surely we
must have missed him. We'd better look
around a little. You go that way and I'll
go this."
Mr. Clayton turned and walked several


116 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
rods along the platform to the men's waiting-
room, and standing near the door glanced
around to see if he could find the object of
his search. The only colored person in the
room was a stout and very black man, wear¬
ing a broadcloth suit and a silk hat, and
seated a short distance from the door. On
the seat by his side stood a couple of valises.
On one of them, the one nearest him, on
which his arm rested, was written, in white
letters, plainly legible, —
" H. M. Brown, M. C.
"Washington, D. C."
Mr. Clayton's feelings at this discovery can
better be imagined than described. He hastily
left the waiting-room, before the black gentle¬
man, who was looking the other way, was
even aware of his presence, and, walking
rapidly up and down the platform, communed
with himself upon what course of action the
situation demanded. He had invited to his
house, had come down to meet, had made
elaborate preparations to entertain on the fol¬
lowing evening, a light-colored man,—a white
man by his theory, an acceptable guest, a
possible husband for his daughter, an avowed


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 117
suitor for her hand. If the Congressman had
turned out to be brown, even dark brown,
with fairly good hair, though he might not
have desired him as a son-in-law, vet he
could have welcomed him as a guest. But
even this softening of the blow was denied
him, for the man in the waiting-room was
palpably, aggressively black, with pronounced
African features and woolly hair, without
apparently a single drop of redeeming white
blood. Could he, in the face of his well-
known principles, his lifelong rule of conduct,
take this negro into his home and introduce
him to his friends? Could he subject his
wife and daughter to the rude shock of such a
disappointment? It would be bad enough
for them to learn of the ghastly mistake, but
to have him in the house would be twisting
the arrow in the wound.
Mr. Clayton had the instincts of a gentleman,
and realized the delicacy of the situation. But
to get out of his difficulty without wounding
the feelings of the Congressman required not
only diplomacy but dispatch. Whatever he
did must be done promptly; for if he waited
many minutes the Congressman would prob¬
ably take a carriage and be driven to Mr.
Clayton's residence.


118 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
A ray of hope came for a moment to illu¬
mine the gloom of the situation. Perhaps
the black man was merely sitting there, and
not the owner of the valise! For there were
two valises, one on each side of the supposed
Congressman. For obvious reasons he did
not care to make the inquiry himself, so he
looked around for his companion, who came
up a moment later.
" Jack," he exclaimed excitedly, " I'm
afraid we 're in the worst kind of a hole, un¬
less there's some mistake! Run down to the
men's waiting-room and you '11 see a man and
a valise, and you '11 understand what I mean.
Ask that darkey if he is the Honorable Mr.
Brown, Congressman from South Carolina.
If he says yes, come back right away and let
me know, without giving him time to ask any
questions, and put your wits to work to help
me out of the scrape."
" I wonder what's the matter ? " said Jack
to himself, but did as he was told. In a
moment he came running back.
"Yes, sir," he announced; "he says he's
the man."
" Jack," said Mr. Clayton desperately, " if
you want to show your appreciation of what


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 119
I 've done for you, you must suggest some
way out of this. I'd never dare to take that
negro to my house, and yet I'm obliged to
treat him like a gentleman."
Jack's eyes had worn a somewhat reflective
look since he had gone to make the inquiry.
Suddenly his face brightened with intelli¬
gence, and then, as a newsboy ran into the
station calling his wares, hardened into deter¬
mination.
" Clarion, special extry 'dition ! All about
de epidemic er dipt'eria ! " clamored the news¬
boy with shrill childish treble, as he made his
way toward the waiting-room. Jack darted
after him, and saw the man to whom he had
spoken buy a paper. He ran back to his em¬
ployer, and dragged him over toward the
ticket-seller's window.
"I have it, sir!" he exclaimed, seizing a
telegraph blank and writing rapidly, and
reading aloud as he wrote. " How's this for
a way out? " —
"Dear Sir, — I write you this note here
in the depot to inform you of an unfortunate
event which has interfered with my plans and
those of my family for your entertainment


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 121
" Splendid ! " cried Mr. Clayton. "You've
helped me out of a horrible scrape. Now, go
and take him to the hotel and see him com¬
fortably located, and tell them to charge the
bill to me."
" I suspect, sir," suggested Jack, " that
I 'd better not go up to the house, and you '11
have to stay in yourself for a day or two,
to keep up appearances. I '11 sleep on the
lounge at the store, and we can talk business
over the telephone."
" All right, Jack, we '11 arrange the details
later. But for Heaven's sake get him started,
or he '11 be calling a hack to drive up to the
house. I '11 go home on a street car."
" So far so good," sighed Mr. Clayton to
himself as he escaped from the station. "Jack
is a deuced clever fellow, and I '11 have to do
something more for him. But the tug-of-
war is yet to come. I've got to bribe a doc¬
tor, shut up the house for a day or two, and
have all the ill-humor of two disappointed
women to endure until this negro leaves town.
Well, I'm sure my wife and Alice will back
me up at any cost. No sacrifice is too great
to escape having to entertain him ; of course
I have no prejudice against his color, — he


122 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
can't help that,— but it is the principle of
the thing1. If we received him it would be a
concession fatal to all my views and theories.
And I am really doing him a kindness, for
I'm sure that all the world could not make
Alice and her mother treat him with anything
but cold politeness. It '11 be a gTeat mortifi¬
cation to Alice, but I don't see how else I
could have got out of it."
He boarded the first car that left the depot,
and soon reached home. The house was
lighted up, and through the lace curtains of
the parlor windows he could see his wife and
daughter, elegantly dressed, waiting to receive
their distinguished visitor. He rang the bell
impatiently, and a servant opened the door.
" The gentleman did n't come ? " asked the
maid.
" No," he said as he hung up his hat.
This brought the ladies to the door.
" He did n't come ?" they exclaimed.
" What's the matter ? "
" I '11 tell you," he said. " Mary," this to
the servant, a white girl, who stood in open-
eyed curiosity, " we shan't need you any more
to-night."
Then he went into the parlor, and, closing


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 123
the door, told his story. When he reached the
point where he had discovered the color of
the honorable Mr. Brown, Miss Clayton caught
her breath, and was on the verge of collapse.
" That nigger," said Mrs. Clayton indig¬
nantly, " can never set foot in this house.
But what did you do with him ? "
Mr. Clayton quickly unfolded his plan, and
described the disposition he had made of the
Congressman.
" It's an awful shame," said Mrs. Clayton.
" Just think of the trouble and expense we
have gone to ! And poor Alice '11 never get
over it, for everybody knows he came to see
her and that he's smitten with her. But
you 've done just right; we never would have
been able to hold up our heads again if we
had introduced a black man, even a Congress¬
man, to the people that are invited here to¬
morrow night, as a sweetheart of Alice.
Why, she wouldn't marry him if he was
President of the United States and plated
with gold an inch thick. The very idea ! "
"Well," said Mr. Clayton, "then we've
got to act quick. Alice must wrap up her
throat — by the way, Alice, how is your
throat ? "


124 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
"It's sore," sobbed Alice, who had been
in tears almost from her father's return, " and
I don't care if I do have diphtheria and die,
no, I don't! " and she wept on.
" Wrap up your throat and go to bed, and
I '11 go over to Doctor Pillsbury's and get a
diphtheria card to nail up on the house. In
the morning, first thing, we '11 have to write
notes recalling the invitations for to-morrow
evening, and have them delivered by mes¬
senger boys. We were fools for not finding
out all about this man from some one who
knew, before we invited him here. Sadler
don't know more than half he thinks he does,
anyway. And we '11 have to do this thing
thoroughly, or our motives will be miscon¬
strued, and people will say we are prejudiced
and all that, when it is only a matter of prin¬
ciple with us."
The programme outlined above was carried
out to the letter. The invitations were re¬
called, to the great disappointment of the
invited guests. The family physician called
several times during the day. Alice remained
in bed., and the maid left without notice, in
such a hurry that she forgot to take her best
clothes.


126 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
the office that for urgent business considera¬
tions the lake shipping interest wanted Repre¬
sentative Brown treated with marked consid¬
eration.
There was more of the article, but the
introductory portion left Mr. Clayton in such
a state of bewilderment that the paper fell
from his hand. What was the meaning of
it ? Had he been mistaken ? Obviously so,
or else the reporter was wrong, which was
manifestly improbable. When he had recov¬
ered himself somewhat, he picked up the
newspaper and began reading where he had
left off.
" Representative Brown traveled to Grove-
land in company with Bishop Jones of the
African Methodist Jerusalem Church, who is
en route to attend the general conference
of his denomination at Detroit next week.
The bishop, who came in while the writer
was interviewing Mr. Brown, is a splendid
type of the pure negro. He is said to
be a man of great power among his people,
which may easily be believed after one has
looked upon his expressive countenance and
heard him discuss the questions which affect
the welfare of his church and his race."


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 127
Mr. Clayton stared at the paper. "e The
bishop,' " he repeated, "' is a splendid type
of the pure negro.' I must have mistaken
the bishop for the Congressman ! But how
in the world did Jack get the thing balled
up ? I '11 call up the store and demand an
explanation of him.
" Jack," he asked, " what kind of a looking
man was the fellow you gave the note to at
the depot ? "
" He was a very wicked-looking fellow, sir,"
came back the answer. " He had a bad eye,
looked like a gambler, sir. I am not sur¬
prised that you did n't want to entertain him,
even if he was a Congressman."
" What color was he — that's what I want
to know — and what kind of hair did he
have ? "
" Why, he was about my complexion, sir,
and had straight black hair."
The rules of the telephone company did
not permit swearing over the line. Mr. Clay¬
ton broke the rules.
" Was there any one else with him ? " he
asked when he had relieved his mind.
"Yes, sir, Bishop Jones of the African
Methodist Jerusalem Church was sitting there


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 129
he was aroused by the sound of the door-bell.
He went to the door. The evening paper was
lying on the porch, and the newsboy, who had
not observed the diphtheria sign until after he
had rung, was hurrying away as fast as his
legs would carry him.
Mr. Clayton opened the paper and looked
it through to see if there was any reference
to the visiting Congressman. He found what
he sought and more. An article on the local
page contained a resume of the information
given in the morning paper, with the follow¬
ing additional paragraph: —
" A reporter, who called at the Forest Hill
this morning to interview Representative
Brown, was informed that the Congressman
had been invited to spend the remainder of
his time in Groveland as the guest of Mr.
William Watkins, the proprietor of the popu¬
lar livery establishment on Main Street. Mr.
Brown will remain in the city several days, and
a reception will be tendered him at Mr. Wat-
kins's on Wednesday evening."
" That ends it," sighed Mr. Clayton. " The
dove of peace will never again rest on my
roof-tree."
But why dwell longer on the sufferings of


130 A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
Mr. Clayton, or attempt to describe the feel¬
ings or chronicle the remarks of his wife and
daughter when they learned the facts in the
case ?
As to Representative Brown, he was made
welcome in the hospitable home of Mr. Wil¬
liam Watkins. There was a large and bril¬
liant assemblage at the party on Wednesday
evening, at which were displayed the costumes
prepared for the Clayton reception. Mr.
Brown took a fancy to Miss Lura Watkins,
to whom, before the week was over, he became
engaged to be married. Meantime poor Alice,
the innocent victim of circumstances and prin¬
ciples, lay sick abed with a supposititious case
of malignant diphtheria, and a real case of
acute disappointment and chagrin.
"Oh, Jack!" exclaimed Alice, a few weeks
later, on the way home from evening church
in company with the young man, "what a
dreadful thing it all was ! And to think of
that hateful Lura Watkins marrying the
Congressman !"
The street was shaded by trees at the point
where they were passing, and there was no
one in sight. Jack put his arm around her
waist, and, leaning over, kissed her.


A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE 131
" Never mind, dear," he said soothingly,
" you still have your' last chance' left, and I '11
prove myself a better man than the Congress¬
man."
Occasionally, at social meetings, when the
vexed question of the future of the colored
race comes up, as it often does, for discussion,
Mr. Clayton may still be heard to remark
sententiously : —
" What the white people of the United
States need most, in dealing with this problem,
is a higher conception of the brotherhood of
man. For of one blood God made all the
nations of the earth."


CICELY'S DREAM
I
The old woman stood at the back door of
the cabin, shading her eyes with her hand,
and looking across the vegetable garden that
ran up to the very door. Beyond the garden
she saw, bathed in the sunlight, a field of
corn, just in the ear, stretching for half a
mile, its yellow, pollen-laden tassels over¬
topping the dark green mass of broad glisten¬
ing blades; and in the distance, through the
faint morning haze of evaporating dew, the
line of the woods, of a still darker green,
meeting the clear blue of the summer sky.
Old Dinah saw, going down the path, a tall,
brown girl, in a homespun frock, swinging a
slat-bonnet in one hand and a splint basket
in the other.
" Oh, Cicely ! " she called.
The girl turned and answered in a resonant
voice, vibrating with youth and life,—
" Yes, granny! "


CICELY'S DEE AM
133
"Be sho' and pick a good mess er peas,
chile, fer yo' gran'daddy's gwine ter be home
ter dinner ter-day."
The old woman stood a moment longer and
then turned to go into the house. What she
had not seen was that the girl was not only
young, but lithe and shapely as a sculptor's
model; that her bare feet seemed to spurn
the earth as they struck it; that though
brown, she was not so brown but that her
cheek was darkly red with the blood of an¬
other race than that which gave her her name
and station in life ; and the old woman did not
see that Cicely's face was as comely as her
figure was superb, and that her eyes were
dreamy with vague yearnings.
Cicely climbed the low fence between the
garden and the cornfield, and started down
one of the long rows leading directly away
from the house. Old Needham was a good
ploughman, and straight as an arrow ran the
furrow between the rows of corn, until it van¬
ished in the distant perspective. The peas
were planted beside alternate hills of corn, the
corn-stalks serving as supports for the climb¬
ing pea-vines. The vines nearest the house
had been picked more or less clear of the long


134
CICELY'S DREAM
green pods, and Cicely walked down the row
for a quarter of a mile, to where the peas were
more plentiful. And as she walked she
thought of her dream of the night before.
She had dreamed a beautiful dream. The
fact that it was a beautiful dream, a delight¬
ful dream, her memory retained very vividly.
She was troubled because she could not
remember just what her dream had been
about. Of one other fact she was certain, that
in her dream she had found something, and
that her happiness had been bound up with the
thing she had found. As she walked down the
corn-row she ran over in her mind the various
things with which she had always associated
happiness. Had she found a gold ring? No,
it was not a gold ring—of that she felt sure.
Was it a soft, curly plume for her hat?
She had seen town people with them, and
had indulged in day-dreams on the subject;
but it was not a feather. Was it a bright-
colored silk dress ? No ; as much as she had
always wanted one, it was not a silk dress.
For an instant, in a dream, she had tasted
some great and novel happiness, and when
she awoke it was dashed from her lips, and
she could not even enjoy the memory of it,


CICELY'S BREAM
135
except in a vague, indefinite, and tantalizing
way.
Cicely was troubled, too, because dreams
were serious things. Dreams had certain
meanings, most of them, and some dreams
went by contraries. If her dream had been
a prophecy of some good thing, she had by
forgetting it lost the pleasure of anticipa¬
tion. If .her dream had been one of those
that go by contraries, the warning would be
in vain, because she would not know against
what evil to provide. So, with a sigh, Cicely
said to herself that it was a troubled world,
more or less ; and having come to a promising
point, began to pick the tenderest pea-pods
and throw them into her basket.
By the time she had reached the end of the
line the basket was nearly full. Glancing
toward the pine woods beyond the rail fence,
she saw a brier bush loaded with large,
luscious blackberries. Cicely was fond of
blackberries, so she set her basket down,
climbed the fence, and was soon busily en¬
gaged in gathering the fruit, delicious even
in its wild state.
She had soon eaten all she cared for. But
the berries were still numerous, and it occurred


1B6
CICELY'S DREAM
to her that her granddaddy would like a black¬
berry pudding for dinner. Catching up her
apron, and using it as a receptacle for the
berries, she had gathered scarcely more than
a handful when she heard a groan.
Cicely was not timid, and her curiosity
being aroused by the sound, she stood erect,
and remained in a listening attitude. In a
moment the sound was repeated, apd, gaug¬
ing the point from which it came, she plunged
resolutely into the thick underbrush of the
forest. She had gone but a few yards when
she stopped short with an exclamation of
surprise and concern.
Upon the ground, under the shadow of the
towering pines, a man lay at full length,—
a young man, several years under thirty, ap¬
parently, so far as his age could be guessed
from a face that wore a short soft beard,
and was so begrimed with dust and in-
crusted with blood that little could be seen of
the underlying integument. What was visi¬
ble showed a skin browned by nature or by
exposure. His hands were of even a darker
brown, almost as dark as Cicely's own. A
tangled mass of very curly black hair, matted
with burs, dank with dew, and clotted with


CICELY'S DREAM
137
blood, fell partly over his forehead, on the
edge of which, extending back into the hair,
an ugly scalp wound was gaping, and, though
apparently not just inflicted, was still bleeding
slowly, as though reluctant to stop, in spite
of the coagulation that had almost closed it.
Cicely with a glance took in all this and
more. But, first of all, she saw the man was
wounded and bleeding, and the nurse latent
in all womankind awoke in her to the require¬
ments of the situation. She knew there was
a spring a few rods away, and ran swiftly
to it. There was usually a gourd at the
spring, but now it was gone. Pouring out
the blackberries in a little heap where they
could be found again, she took off her
apron, dipped one end of it into the spring,
and ran back to the wounded man. The
apron was clean, and she squeezed a little
stream of water from it into the man's
mouth. He swallowed it with avidity. Cicely
then knelt by his side, and with the wet
end of her apron washed the blood from
the wound lightly, and the dust from the
man's face. Then she looked at her apron a
moment, debating whether she should tear it
or not.


138
CICELY'S DREAM
iC I'm feared granny '11 be mad," she said
to herself. " I reckon I '11 jes' use de whole
apron."
So she hound the apron around his head
as well as she could, and then sat down a
moment on a fallen tree trunk, to think what
she should do next. The man already seemed
more comfortable; he had ceased moaning,
and lay quiet, though breathing heavily.
" What shall I do with that man ?" she
reflected. a I don' know whether he's a
w'ite man or a black man. Ef he's a w'ite
man, I oughter go an' tell de w'ite folks
up at de big house, an' dey 'd take keer
of 'im. If he's a black man, I oughter go
tell granny. He don' look lack a black man
somehow er nuther, an' yet he don' look
lack a w'ite man; he's too dahk, an' his
hair's too curly. But I mus' do somethin'
wid 'im. He can't be lef' here ter die in de
woods all by hisse'f. Reckon I'll go an'
tell granny."
She scaled the fence, caught up the basket
of peas from where she had left it, and ran,
lightly and swiftly as a deer, toward the
house. Her short skirt did not impede her
progress, and in a few minutes she had


CICELY'S DREAM
139
covered the half mile and was at the cabin
door, a slight heaving of her full and yet
youthful breast being the only sign of any
unusual exertion.
Her story was told in a moment. The old
woman took down a black bottle from a high
shelf, and set out with Cicely across the corn¬
field, toward the wounded man.
As they went through the corn Cicely re¬
called part of her dream. She had dreamed
that under some strange circumstances —what
they had been was still obscure —she had met
a young man — a young man whiter than she
and yet not all white — and that he had loved
her and courted her and married her. Her
dream had been all the sweeter because in it
she had first tasted the sweetness of love, and
she had not recalled it before because only in
her dream had she known or thought of love
as something supremely desirable.
With the memory of her dream, how¬
ever, her fears revived. Dreams were sol¬
emn things. To Cicely the fabric of a vision
was by no means baseless. Her trouble arose
from her not being able to recall, though she
was well versed in dream-lore, just what, event
was foreshadowed by a dream of finding a


140
CICELY'S DREAM
wounded man. If the wounded man were of
her own race, her dream would thus far have
been realized, and having met the young man,
the other joys might be expected to follow.
If he should turn out to be a white man,
then her dream was clearly one of the kind
that go by contraries, and she could expect
only sorrow and trouble and pain as the
proper sequences of this fateful discovery.
II
The two women reached the fence that
separated the cornfield from the pine woods.
" How is I gwine ter git ovuh dat fence,
chile ? " asked the old woman.
" Wait a minute, granny," said Cicely;
" I '11 take it down."
It was only an eight-rail fence, and it was
a matter of but a few minutes for the girl to
lift down and lay to either side the ends
of the rails that formed one of the angles.
This done, the old woman easily stepped across
the remaining two or three rails. It was only
a moment before they stood by the wounded
man. He was lying still, breathing regularly,
and seemingly asleep.


CICELY'S DREAM
141
" What is he, granny," asked the girl
anxiously, "a w'ite man, or not?"
Old Dinah pushed back the matted hair
from the wounded man's brow, and looked at
the skin beneath. It was fairer there, but
yet of a decided brown. She raised his hand,
pushed back the tattered sleeve from his wrist,
and then she laid his hand down gently.
" Mos' lackly he's a mulatter man f'om
up de country somewhar. He don' look lack
dese yer niggers roun' yere, ner yet lack a
w'ite man. But de po' boy's in a bad fix,
w'ateber he is, an' I 'spec's we bettah do w'at
we kin fer 'im, an' w'en he comes to he '11
tell us w'at he is — er w'at he calls hisse'f.
Hoi' 'is head up, chile, an' I '11 po' a drop er
dis yer liquor down his th'oat; dat '11 bring
'im to quicker 'n anything e'se I knows."
Cicely lifted the sick man's head, and
Dinah poured a few drops of the whiskey
between his teeth. He swallowed it readily
enough. In a few minutes he opened his eyes
and stared blankly at the two women. Cicely
saw that his eyes were large and black, and
glistening with fever.
" How you feelin', suh ? " asked the old
woman.


142
CICELY'S DEE AM
There was no answer.
" Is you feelin' bettah now ? "
The wounded man kept on staring blankly.
Suddenly he essayed to put his hand to his
head, gave a deep groan, and fell back again
unconscious.
" He 's gone ag'in," said Dinah. " I
reckon we '11 hafter tote 'im up ter de house
and take keer er 'im dere. W'ite folks
would n't want ter fool wid a nigger man, an'
we doan know who his folks is. He's outer
his head an' will be fer some time yet, an' we
can't tell nuthin' 'bout 'im tel he comes ter
his senses."
Cicely lifted the wounded man by the arms
and shoulders. She was strong, with the
strength of youth and a sturdy race. The
man was pitifully emaciated ; how much, the
two women had not suspected until they
raised him. They had no difficulty whatever,
except for the awkwardness of such a burden,
in lifting him over the fence and carrying
him through the cornfield to the cabin.
They laid him on Cicely's bed in the little
lean-to shed that formed a room separate from
the main apartment of the cabin. The old
woman sent Cicely to cook the dinner, while


144
CICELY'S BREAM
closely akin to unconsciousness as to be
scarcely distinguishable from it.
Wben old Needham came home at noon,
his -wife, who had been anxiously awaiting
his return, told him in a few words the story
of Cicely's discovery and of the subsequent
events.
Needham inspected the stranger with a pro¬
fessional eye. He had been something of a
plantation doctor in his day, and was known
far and wide for his knowledge of simple
remedies. The negroes all around, as well as
many of the poorer white people, came to him
for the treatment of common ailments.
" He's got a fevuh," he said, after feeling
the patient's pulse and laying his hand on
his brow, " an' we '11 hafter gib 'im some yarb
tea an' nuss 'im tel de fevuh w'ars off. I
'spec'," he added, " dat I knows whar dis
boy come f'om. He's mos' lackly one er dem
bright mulatters, f'om Robeson County—
some of 'em call deyse'ves Croatan Injins—
w'at's been conscripted an' sent ter wu'k on
de fo'tifications down at Wimbleton er some-
'er's er nuther, an' done 'scaped, and got mos'
killed gittin' erway, an' wuz n' none too well
fed befo', an' nigh 'bout starved ter def sence.


146
CICELY'S DREAM
the ordnance and stores, and retreated across
the Cape Fear River, burning the river bridge
behind them, — two acts of war afterwards
unjustly attributed to General Sherman's
army, which followed close upon the heels
of the retreating Confederates.
When there was no longer any fear for
the stranger's safety, no more pains were
taken to conceal him. His wound had healed
rapidly, and in a week he had been able with
some help to climb up the ladder into the
loft. In all this time, however, though appar¬
ently conscious, he had said no word to any
one, nor had he seemed to comprehend a
word that was spoken to him.
Cicely had been his constant attendant.
After the first day, during which her granny
had nursed him, she had sat by his bedside,
had fanned his fevered brow, had held food
and water and medicine to his lips. When it
was safe for him to come down from the loft
and sit in a chair under a spreading oak,
Cicely supported him until he was strong
enough to walk about the yard. When his
strength had increased sufficiently to permit
of greater exertion, she accompanied him on
long rambles in the fields and woods.


CICELY'S DREAM
147
In spite of his gain in physical strength,
the newcomer changed very little in other re¬
spects. For a long time he neither spoke nor
smiled. To questions put to him he simply
gave no reply, but looked at his questioner
with the blank unconsciousness of an infant.
By and by he began to recognize Cicely, and
to smile at her approach. The next step in
returning consciousness was but another mani¬
festation of the same sentiment. When Cicely
would leave him he would look his regret,
and be restless and uneasy until she returned.
The family were at a loss what to call him.
To any inquiry as to his name he answered
no more than to other questions.
" He come jes' befo' Sherman," said Need-
ham, after a few weeks, "lack John de Bap-
tis' befo' de Lawd. I reckon we bettah call
'im John."
So they called him John. He soon learned
the name. As time went on Cicely found
that he was quick at learning things. She
taught him to speak her own negro English,
which he* pronounced with absolute fidelity to
her intonations; so that barring the quality of
his voice, his speech was an echo of Cicely's
own.


148
CICELY'S DREAM
The summer wore away and the autumn
came. John and Cicely wandered in the
woods together and gathered walnuts, and
chinquapins and wild grapes. When harvest
time came, they worked in the fields side by
side, — plucked the corn, pulled the fodder,
and gathered the dried peas from the yellow
pea-vines. Cicely was a phenomenal cotton-
picker, and John accompanied her to the
fields and stayed by her hours at a time,
though occasionally he would complain of his
head, and sit under a tree and rest part of the
day while Cicely worked, the two keeping one
another always in sight.
They did not have a great deal of inter¬
course with other people. Young men came
to the cabin sometimes to see Cicely, but
when they found her entirely absorbed in the
stranger they ceased their visits. For a time
Cicely kept him away, as much as possible,
from others, because she did not wish them to
see that there was anything wrong about him.
This was her motive at first, but after a while
she kept him to herself simply because she
was happier so. He was hers—hers alone.
She had found him, as Pharaoh's daughter
had found Moses in the bulrushes; she had


CICELY'S BEE AM
149
taught him to speak, to think, to love. She
had not taught him to remember; she would
not have wished him to; she would have been
jealous of any past to which he might have
proved bound by other ties. Her dream so
far had come true. She had found him; he
loved her. The rest of it would as surely fol¬
low, and that before long. For dreams were
serious things, and time had proved hers to
have been not a presage of misfortune, but
one of the beneficent visions that are sent,
that we may enjoy by anticipation the good
things that are in store for us.
Ill
But a short interval of time elapsed after
the passage of the warlike host that swept
through North Carolina, until there appeared
upon the scene the vanguard of a second
army, which came to bring light and the
fruits of liberty to a land which slavery and
the havoc of war had brought to ruin. It is
fashionable to assume that those who under¬
took the political rehabilitation of the South¬
ern States merely rounded out the ruin that
the war had wrought — merely ploughed up


150
CICELY'S DREAM
the desolate land and sowed it with salt.
Perhaps the gentler judgments of the future
may recognize that their task was a difficult
one, and that wiser and honester men might
have failed as egregiously. It may even, in
time, be conceded that some good came out of
the carpet-bag governments, as, for instance,
the establishment of a system of popular edu¬
cation in the former slave States. Where it
had been a crime to teach people to read or
write, a schoolhouse dotted every hillside, and
the State provided education for rich and
poor, for white and black alike. Let us lay
at least this token upon the grave of the car¬
pet-baggers. The evil they did lives after
them, and the statute of limitations does not
seem to run against it. It is but just that
we should not forget the good.
Long, however, before the work of political
reconstruction had begun, a brigade of Yankee
schoolmasters and schoolma'ams had invaded
Dixie, and one of the latter had opened a
Freedman's Bureau School in the town of
Patesville, about four miles from Needham
Green's cabin on the neighboring sandhills.
It had been quite a surprise to Miss Chand¬
ler's Boston friends when she had announced


CICELY'S BREAM
151
her intention of going South to teach the
freedmen. Rich, accomplished, beautiful, and
a social favorite, she was giving up the com¬
forts and luxuries of Northern life to go
among hostile strangers, where her associates
would be mostly ignorant negroes. Perhaps
she might meet occasionally an officer of some
Federal garrison, or a traveler from the North;
but to all intents and purposes her friends
considered her as going into voluntary exile.
But heroism was not rare in those days, and
Martha Chandler was only one of the great
multitude whose hearts went out toward an
oppressed race, and who freely poured out
their talents, their money, their lives, — what¬
ever God had given them,—in the sublime
and not unfruitful effort to transform three
millions of slaves into intelligent freemen.
Miss Chandler's friends knew, too, that she
had met a great sorrow, and more than sus¬
pected that out of it had grown her determi¬
nation to go South.
When Cicely Green heard that a school for
colored people had been opened at Patesville
she combed her hair, put on her Sunday frock
and such bits of finery as she possessed, and
set out for town early the next Monday morn¬
ing.


CICELY'S DREAM
153
fused by nature in its own alembic, out of
material despised and spurned of men, or
whether some obscure ancestral strain, the
teacher could not tell. The girl proved in¬
telligent and learned rapidly, indeed seemed
almost feverishly anxious to learn. She was
quiet, and was, though utterly untrained, in¬
stinctively polite, and profited from the first
day by the example of her teacher's quiet ele¬
gance. The teacher dressed in simple black.
When Cicely came back to school the second
day, she had left off her glass beads and her
red ribbon, and had arranged her hair as
nearly like the teacher's as her skill and its
quality would permit.
The teacher was touched by these efforts
at imitation, and by the intense devotion
Cicely soon manifested toward her. It was
not a sycophantic, troublesome devotion, that
made itself a burden to its object. It found
expression in little things done rather than
in any words the girl said. To the degree
that the attraction was mutual, Martha recog¬
nized in it a sort of freemasonry of tem¬
perament that drew them together in spite
of the differences between them. Martha
felt sometimes, in the vague way that one


154
CICELY'S DUE AM
speculates about the impossible, that if she
were brown, and had been brought up in
North Carolina, she would be like Cicely;
and that if Cicely's ancestors had come over
in the Mayflower, and Cicely had been reared
on Beacon Street, in the shadow of the State
House dome, Cicely would have been very
much like herself.
Miss Chandler was lonely sometimes. Her
duties kept her occupied all day. On Sun¬
days she taught a Bible class in the school¬
room. Correspondence with bureau officials
and friends at home furnished her with addi¬
tional occupation. At times, nevertheless, she
felt a longing for the company of women
of her own race; but the white ladies of the
town did not call, even in the most formal
way, upon the Yankee school-teacher. Miss
Chandler was therefore fain to do the best
she could with such companionship as was
available. She took Cicely to her home occa¬
sionally, and asked her once to stay all night.
Thinking, however, that she detected a re¬
luctance on the girl's part to remain away
from home, she did not repeat her invita¬
tion.
Cicely, indeed, was filling a double role.


156
CICELY'S DREAM
without a child's curiosity. His love for
Cicely appeared the only thing for which he
needed no suggestion; and even that pos¬
sessed an element of childish dependence
that would have seemed, to minds trained to
thoughtful observation, infinitely pathetic.
The spring came and cotton-planting time.
The children began to drop out of Miss
Chandler's school one by one, as their services
were required at home. Cicely was among
those who intended to remain in school until
the term closed with the "exhibition," in
which she was assigned a leading part. She
had selected her recitation, or " speech,"
from among half a dozen poems that her
teacher had suggested, and to memorizing it
she devoted considerable time and study.
The exhibition, as the first of its kind, was
sure to be a notable event. The parents and
friends of the children were invited to attend,
and a colored church, recently erected, — the
largest available building, — was secured as
the place where the exercises should take
place.
On the morning of the eventful day, uncle
Needham, assisted by John, harnessed the
mule to the two-wheeled cart, on which a


CICELY'S DREAM
157
couple of splint-bottomed chairs were fastened
to accommodate Dinah and Cicely. John put
on his best clothes, — an ill-fitting suit of
blue jeans, — a round wool hat, a pair of
coarse brogans, a homespun shirt, and a
bright blue necktie. Cicely wore her best
frock, a red ribbon at her throat, another in
her hair, and carried a bunch of flowers in
her hand. Uncle Needham and aunt Dinah
were also in holiday array. Needham and
John took their seats on opposite sides of the
cart-frame, with their feet dangling down,
and thus the equipage set out leisurely for
the town.
Cicely had long looked forward impatiently
to this day. She was going to marry John
the next week, and then her dream would
have come entirely true. But even this an¬
ticipated happiness did not overshadow the
importance of the present occasion, which
would be an epoch in her life, a day of joy
and triumph. She knew her speech per¬
fectly, and timidity was not one of her weak¬
nesses. She knew that the red ribbons set
off her dark beauty effectively, and that her
dress fitted neatly the curves of her shapely
figure. She confidently expected to win the


158
CICELY'S DREAM
first prize, a large morocco-covered Bible,
offered by Miss Chandler for the best exer¬
cise.
Cicely and her companions soon arrived at
Patesville. Their entrance into the church
made quite a sensation, for Cicely was not
only an acknowledged belle, but a general
favorite, and to John there attached a tinge
of mystery which inspired a respect not be¬
stowed upon those who had grown up in the
neighborhood. Cicely secured a seat in the
front part of the church, next to the aisle, in
the place reserved for the pupils. As the
house was already partly filled by townspeo¬
ple when the party from the country arrived,
Needham and his wife and John were forced
to content themselves with places somewhat
in the rear of the room, from which they
could see and hear what took place on the
platform, but where they were not at all
conspicuously visible to those at the front of
the church.
The schoolmistress had not yet arrived,
and order was preserved in the audience by
two of the elder pupils, adorned with large
rosettes of red, white, and blue, who ushered
the most important visitors to the seats


CICELY'S DREAM
159
reserved for them. A national flag was
gracefully draped over the platform, and
under it hung a lithograph of the Great
Emancipator, for it was thus these people
thought of him. He had saved the Union,
but the Union had never meant anything
good to them. He had proclaimed liberty to
the captive, which meant all to them; and to
them he was and would ever be the Great
Emancipator.
The schoolmistress came in at a rear door
and took her seat upon the platform. Martha
was dressed in white; for once she had laid
aside the sombre garb in which alone she had
been seen since her arrival at Patesville. She
wore a yellow rose at her throat, a bunch of
jasmine in her belt. A sense of responsi¬
bility for the success of the exhibition had
deepened the habitual seriousness of her face,
yet she greeted the audience with a smile.
" Don' Miss Chan'ler look sweet," whis¬
pered the little girls to one another, devour¬
ing her beauty with sparkling eyes, their lips
parted over a wealth of ivory.
" De Lawd will bress dat chile," said one
old woman, in soliloquy. " I t'ank de good
Marster I's libbed ter see dis day."


162
CICELY'S DREAM
A little yellow boy, with long curls, arid
a frightened air, next ascended the platform.
" Now, Jimmie, be a man, and speak right
out," whispered his teacher, tapping his arm
reassuringly with her fan as he passed her.
Jimmie essayed to recite the lines so fa¬
miliar to a past generation of schoolchil¬
dren : —
" I knew a widow very poor,
Who four small children had ;
The eldest was but six years old,
A gentle, modest lad."
He ducked his head hurriedly in a futile
attempt at a bow; then, following instruc¬
tions previously given him, fixed his eyes
upon a large cardboard motto hanging on
the rear wall of the room, which admonished
him in bright red letters to
" Always Speak The Truth,"
and started off with assumed confidence —
" I knew a widow very poor,
Who" —
At this point, drawn by an irresistible impulse,
his eyes sought the level of the audience.
Ah, fatal blunder ! He stammered, but with
an effort raised his eyes and began again:


CICELY'S BREAM
163
" I knew a widow very poor,
Who four " —
Again his treacherous eyes fell, and his little
remaining self-possession utterly forsook him.
He made one more despairing effort: —
" I knew a widow very poor,
Who four small" —
and then, bursting into tears, turned and
fled amid a murmur of sympathy.
Jimmie's inglorious retreat was covered by
the singing in chorus of " The Star-spangled
Banner," after which Cicely Green came for¬
ward to recite her poem.
" By Jove, Maxwell! " whispered the young
officer, who was evidently a connoisseur of
female beauty, " that is n't bad for a bronze
Venus. I '11 tell you " —
" 'Sh ! " said the other. " Keep still."
When Cicely finished her recitation, the
young officers began to applaud, but stopped
suddenly in some confusion as they realized
that they were the only ones in the audience
so engaged. The colored people had either
not learned how to express their approval in
orthodox fashion, or else their respect for the
sacred character of the edifice forbade any
such demonstration. Their enthusiasm found


164
CICELY'S DREAM
vent, however, in a subdued murmur, empha¬
sized by numerous nods and winks and sup¬
pressed exclamations. During the singing
that followed Cicely's recitation the two
officers quietly withdrew, their duties calling
them away at this hour.
At the close of the exercises, a committee
on prizes met in the vestibule, and unani¬
mously decided that Cicely Green was entitled
to the first prize. Proudly erect, with spar¬
kling eyes and cheeks flushed with victory,
Cicely advanced to the platform to receive the
coveted reward. As she turned away, her
eyes, shining with gratified vanity, sought
those of her lover.
John sat bent slightly forward in an attitude
of strained attention; and Cicely's triumph
lost half its value when she saw that it was
not at her, but at Miss Chandler, that his
look was directed. Though she watched him
thenceforward, not one glance did he vouch¬
safe to his jealous sweetheart, and never for
an instant withdrew his eyes from Martha, or
relaxed the unnatural intentness of his gaze.
The imprisoned mind, stirred to unwonted
effort, was struggling for liberty; and from
Martha had come the first ray of outer light
that had penetrated its dungeon.


166
CICELY'S DREAM
you for which you might feel inclined, in your
good nature, to thank me, you may thank not
me alone, but another who came before me,
and whose work I have but taken up where he
laid it down. I had a friend,—a dear friend,
— why should I be ashamed to say it ? — a
lover, to whom I was to be married, — as I
hope all you girls may some day be happily
married. His country needed him, and I
gave him up. He came to fight for the Union
and for Freedom, for he believed that all men
are brothers. He did not come back again
— he gave up his life for you. Could I
do less than he ? I came to the land that he
sanctified by his death, and I have tried in my
weak way to tend the plant he watered with
his blood, and which, in the fullness of time,
will blossom forth into the perfect flower of
liberty."
She could say no more, and as the whole
audience thrilled in sympathy with her emo¬
tion, there was a hoarse cry from the men's,
side of the room, and John forced his way to
the aisle and rushed forward to the platform.
" Martha ! Martha ! "
" Arthur ! 0 Arthur! "
Pent-up love burst the flood-gates of de-


CICELY'S DREAM
167
spair and oblivion, and caught these two young
hearts in its torrent. Captain Arthur Carey,
of the 1st Massachusetts, long since reported
missing, and mourned as dead, was restored to
reason and to his world.
It seemed to him but yesterday that he had
escaped from the Confederate prison at Salis¬
bury ; that in an encounter with a guard he
had received a wound in the head; that he
had wandered on in the woods, keeping him¬
self alive by means of wild berries, with now
and then a piece of bread or a potato from a
friendly negro. It seemed but the night be¬
fore that he had laid himself down, tortured
with fever, weak from loss of blood, and with
no hope that he would ever rise again. From
that moment his memory of the past was a
blank until he recognized Martha on the plat¬
form and took up again the thread of his for¬
mer existence where it had been broken off.
And Cicely ? Well, there is often another
woman, and Cicely, all unwittingly to Carey
or to Martha, had been the other woman.
For, after all, her beautiful dream had been
one of the kind that go by contraries.


THE PASSING OF GRANDISON
I
When it is said that it was done to please
a woman, there ought perhaps to be enough
said to explain anything; for what a man
will not do to please a woman is yet to he
discovered. Nevertheless, it might he well to
state a few preliminary facts to make it clear
why young Dick Owens tried to run one of
his father's negro men off to Canada.
In the early fifties, when the growth of
anti-slavery sentiment and the constant drain
of fugitive slaves into the North had so
alarmed the slaveholders of the border States
as to lead to the passage of the Fugitive Slave
Law, a young white man from Ohio, moved
by compassion for the sufferings of a certain
bondman who happened to have a " hard mas¬
ter," essayed to help the slave to freedom.
The attempt was discovered and frustrated;
the abductor was tried and convicted for slave-
stealing, and sentenced to a term of imprison-


THE PASSING OF GBANDISON 169
ment in the penitentiary. His death, after
the expiration of only a small part of the
sentence, from cholera contracted while nurs¬
ing stricken fellow prisoners, lent to the case
a melancholy interest that made it famous in
anti-slavery annals.
Dick Owens had attended fhe trial. He
was a youth of about twenty-two, intelligent,
handsome, and amiable, but extremely indo¬
lent, in a graceful and gentlemanly way; or,
as old Judge Fenderson put it more than
once, he was lazy as the Devil, — a mere figure
of speech, of course, and not one that did
justice to the Enemy of Mankind. When
asked why he never did anything serious,
Dick would good-naturedly reply, with a well-
modulated drawl, that he did n't have to. His
father was rich; there was but one other
child, an unmarried daughter, who because of
poor health would probably never marry, and
Dick was therefore heir presumptive to a large
estate. Wealth or social position he did not
need to seek, for he was born to both. Char¬
ity Lomax had shamed him into studying law,
but notwithstanding an hour or so a day spent
at old Judge Fenderson's office, he did not
make remarkable headway in his legal studies.


170 THE PASSING OF GRAN BISON
" What Dick needs," said the judge, who
was fond of tropes, as became a scholar, and
of horses, as was befitting a Kentuckian, " is
the whip of necessity, or the spur of ambition.
If he had either, he would soon need the
snaffle to hold him back."
But all Dick required, in fact, to prompt
him to the most remarkable thing he accom¬
plished before he was twenty-five, was a mere
suggestion from Charity Lomax. The story
was never really known to but two persons
until after the war, when it came out because
it was a good story and there was no particu¬
lar reason for its concealment.
Young Owens had attended the trial of this
slave-stealer, or martyr, — either or both, —
and, when it was over, had gone to call on
Charity Lomax, and, while they sat on the
veranda after sundown, had told her all about
the trial. He was a good talker, as his career
in later years disclosed, and described the pro¬
ceedings very graphically.
" I confess," he admitted, " that while my
principles were against the prisoner, my sym¬
pathies were on his side. It appeared that he
was of good family, and that he had an old
father and mother, respectable people, depend-


THE PASSING OF GRANDISON 171
ent upon him for support and comfort in their
declining years. He had been led into the
matter by pity for a negro whose master ought
to have been run out of the county long ago
for abusing his slaves. If it had been merely
a question of old Sam Briggs's negro, nobody
would have cared anything about it. But
father and the rest of them stood on the prin¬
ciple of the thing, and told the judge so, and
the fellow was sentenced to three years in the
penitentiary."
Miss Lomax had listened with lively in¬
terest.
" I've always hated old Sam Briggs," she
said emphatically, " ever since the time he
broke a negro's leg with a piece of cordwood.
When I hear of a cruel deed it makes the
Quaker blood that came from my grandmo¬
ther assert itself. Personally I wish that all
Sam Briggs's negroes would run away. As for
the young man, I regard him as a hero. He
dared something for humanity. I could love
a man who would take such chances for the
sake of others."
" Could you love me, Charity, if I did
something heroic ? "
" You never will, Dick. You 're too lazy


174 THE PASSING OF GRANDISON
II
Young Owens got up about nine o'clock
next morning, and while making his toilet
put some questions to his personal attendant,
a rather bright looking young mulatto of
about his own age.
" Tom," said Dick.
" Yas, Mars Dick," responded the servant.
" I'm going on a trip North. Would you
like to go with me ? "
Now, if there was anything that Tom
would have liked to make, it was a trip North.
It was something he had long contemplated
in the abstract, but had never been able to
muster up sufficient courage to attempt in the
concrete. He was prudent enough, however,
to dissemble his feelings.
" I would n't min' it, Mars Dick, ez long
ez you'd take keer er me an' fetch me home
all right."
Tom's eyes belied his words, however, and
his young master felt well assured that Tom
needed only a good opportunity to make him
run away. Having a comfortable home, and
a dismal prospect in case of failure, Tom was
not likely to take any desperate chances; but


THE PASSING OF GRANDISON 175
young Owens was satisfied that in a free State
but little persuasion would be required to lead
Tom astray. With a very logical and char¬
acteristic desire to gain his end with the least
necessary expenditure of effort, he decided to
take Tom with him, if his father did not
object.
Colonel Owens had left the house when
Dick went to breakfast, so Dick did not see
his father till luncheon.
"Father," he remarked' casually to the
colonel, over the fried chicken, " I'm feeling
a trifle run down. I imagine my health
would be improved somewhat by a little
travel and change of scene."
" Why don't you take a trip North ?"
suggested his father. The colonel added to
paternal affection a considerable respect for
his son as the heir of a large estate. He
himself had been " raised " in comparative
poverty, and had laid the foundations of his
fortune by hard work; and while he despised
the ladder by which he had climbed, he could
not entirely forget it, and unconsciously mani¬
fested, in his intercourse with his son, some of
the poor man's deference toward the wealthy
and well-born.


176 THE PASSING OF GRAND1S0N
" I think I '11 adopt your suggestion, sir,"
replied the son, "and run up to New York;
and after I've been there awhile I may go
on to Boston for a week or so. I've never
been there, you know."
" There are some matters you can talk over
with my factor in New York," rejoined the
colonel, " and while you are up there among
the Yankees, I hope you '11 keep your eyes
and ears open to find out what the rascally
abolitionists are saying and doing. They 're
becoming altogether too active for our com¬
fort, and entirely too many ungrateful niggers
are running away. I hope the conviction of
that fellow yesterday may discourage the rest
of the breed. I'd just like to catch any one
trying to run off one of my darkeys. He'd
get short shrift; I don't think any Court
would have a chance to try him."
" They are a pestiferous lot," assented Dick,
"and dangerous to our institutions. But
say, father, if I go North I shall want to take
Tom with me."
Now, the colonel, while a very indulgent
father, had pronounced views on the subject
of negroes, having studied them, as he often
said, for a great many years, and, as he


178 THE PASSING OF GRANDISON
meals; besides, lie's sweet on your mother's
maid, Betty, and I've promised to let 'em get
married before long. I '11 have Grandison up,
and we '11 talk to him. Here, you boy Jack,"
called the colonel to a yellow youth in the
next room who was catching flies and pulling
their wings off to pass the time, " go down to
the barn and tell Grandison to come here."
" Grandison," said the colonel, when the
negro stood before him, hat in hand.
" Yas, marster."
" Have n't I always treated you right ? "
" Yas, marster."
" Have n't you always got all you wanted
to eat ? "
" Yas, marster."
" And as much whiskey and tobacco as was
good for you, Grandison ? "
" Y-a-s, marster."
"I should just like to know, Grandison,
whether you don't think yourself a great deal
better off than those poor free negroes down
by the plank road, with no kind master to
look after them and no mistress to give them
medicine when they 're sick and — and "—
"Well, I sh'd jes' reckon I is better off,
suh, dan dem low-down free niggers, suh!


THE PASSING OF GRANDISON 179
Ef anybody ax 'em who dey b'long ter, dey
has ter say nobody, er e'se lie erbout it.
Anybody ax me who I b'longs ter, I ain' got
no 'casion ter be shame' ter tell 'em, no, suh,
'deed I ain', suh ! "
The colonel was beaming. This was true
gratitude, and his feudal heart thrilled at such
appreciative homage. What cold-blooded,
heartless monsters they were who would break
up this blissful relationship of kindly protec¬
tion on the one hand, of wise subordi¬
nation and loyal dependence on the other !
The colonel always became indignant at the
mere thought of such wickedness.
" Grandison," the colonel continued, " your
young master Dick is going North for a
few weeks', and I am thinking of letting him
take you along. I shall send you on this
trip, Grandison, in order that you may
take care of your young master. He will
need some one to wait on him, and no one
can ever do it so well as one of the boys
brought up with him on the old plantation.
I am going to trust him in your hands, and
I'm sure you '11 do your duty faithfully, and
bring him back home safe and sound — to
old Kentucky."


THE PASSING OF GRANDISON 181
reckon they'd rather like it. Begad, I be¬
lieve they would ! It would serve 'em right
to be hit by a nigger ! "
" Er ef I did n't hit 'em, suh," continued
Grandison reflectively, " I'd tell Mars Dick,
en he 'd fix 'em. He'd smash de face off'n
'em, suh, I jes' knows he would."
" Oh yes, Grandison, your young master
will protect you. You need fear no harm
while he is near."
" Dey won't try ter steal me, will dey, mars-
ter ? " asked the negro, with sudden alarm.
" I don't know, Grandison," replied the
colonel, lighting a fresh cigar. " They 're a
desperate set of lunatics, and there's no tell¬
ing what they may resort to. But if you
stick close to your young master, and remem¬
ber always that he is your best friend, and
understands your real needs, and has your
true interests at heart, and if you will be
careful to avoid strangers who try to talk to
you, you '11 stand a fair chance of getting
back to your home and your friends. And
if you please your master Dick, he '11 buy you
a present, and a string of beads for Betty
to wear when you and she get married in the
fall."


182 THE PASSING OF GRANDISON
" Thanky, marster, thanky, suh," replied
Grandison, oozing gratitude at every pore;
" you is a good marster, to be sho', suh; yas,
'deed you is. You kin jes' bet me and Mars
Dick gwine git 'long jes' lack I wuz own boy
ter Mars Dick. En it won't be my fault ef
he don' want me fer his boy all de time, w'en
we come back home ag'in."
" All right, Grandison, you may go now.
You needn't work any more to-day, and
here's a piece of tobacco for you off my own
plug."
" Thanky, marster, thanky, marster! You
is de bes' marster any nigger ever had in dis
worl'." And Grandison bowed and scraped
and disappeared round the corner, his jaws
closing around a large section of the colonel's
best tobacco.
"You may take Grandison," said the colo¬
nel to his son. " I allow he's abolitionist-
proof."
Ill
Richard Owens, Esq., and servant, from
Kentucky, registered at the fashionable New
York hostelry for Southerners in those days,
a hotel where an atmosphere congenial to


the passing of geandison 188
Southern institutions "was sedulously main¬
tained. But there were negro waiters in the
dining-room, and mulatto bell-boys, and Dick
had no doubt that Grandison, with the native
gregariousness and garrulousness of his race,
would foregather and palaver with them
sooner or later, and Dick hoped that they
would speedily inoculate him with the virus of
freedom. For it was not Dick's intention to
say anything to his servant about his plan to
free him, for obvious reasons. To mention
one of them, if Grandison should go away,
and by legal process be recaptured, his young
master's part in the matter would doubtless
become known, which would be embarrass¬
ing to Dick, to say the least. If, on the
other hand, he should merely give Grandison
sufficient latitude, he had no doubt he would
eventually lose him. For while not exactly
skeptical about Grandison's perfervid loyalty,
Dick had been a somewhat keen observer of
human nature, in his own indolent way, and
based his expectations upon the force of the
example and argument that his servant could
scarcely fail to encounter. Grandison should
have a fair chance to become free by his own
initiative; if it should become necessary to


186 THE PASSING OF GRANDISON
Dear Friend and Brother: —
A wicked slaveholder from Kentucky,
stopping at the Revere House, has dared to
insult the liberty-loving people of Boston by
bringing his slave into their midst. Shall
this be tolerated? Or shall steps be taken
in the name of liberty to rescue a fellow-man
from bondage? For obvious reasons I can
only sign myself,
A Frieistd of Humanity.
That his letter might have an opportunity
to prove effective, Dick made it a point to
send Grandison away from the hotel on vari¬
ous errands. On one of these occasions Dick
watched him for quite a distance down the
street. Grandison had scarcely left the hotel
when a long-haired^ sharp-featured man came
out behind him, followed him, soon overtook
him, and kept along beside him until they
turned the next corner. Dick's hopes were
roused by this spectacle, but sank correspond¬
ingly when Grandison returned to the hotel.
As Grandison said nothing about the en¬
counter, Dick hoped there might be some
self-consciousness behind this unexpected reti¬
cence, the results of which might develop
later on.


THE PASSING OF GRANDISON 187
But Grandison was on hand a^ain when
his master came back to the hotel at night,
and was in attendance again in the morning,
with hot water, to assist at his master's toilet.
Dick sent him on further errands from day to
day, and upon one occasion came squarely
up to him — inadvertently of course — while
Grandison was engaged in conversation with
a young white man in clerical garb. When
Grandison saw Dick approaching, he edged
away from the preacher and hastened toward
his master, with a very evident expression of
relief upon his countenance.
" Mars Dick," he said, " dese yer abolition-
ers is jes' pesterin' de life out er me tryin'
ter git me ter run away. I don' pay no 'ten-
tion ter 'em, but dey riles me so sometimes
dat I'm feared I '11 hit some of 'em some er
dese days, an' dat mought git me inter trouble.
I ain' said nuffin' ter you 'bout it, Mars Dick,
fer I did n' wanter 'sturb yo' min'; but I don'
like it, suli; no, suh, I don'! Is we gwine
back home 'fo' long, Mars Dick ? "
"We'll be going back soon enough," re¬
plied Dick somewhat shortly, while he in¬
wardly cursed the stupidity of a slave who
could be free and would not, and registered


188 THE PASSING OF GRANDISON
a secret vow that if he were unable to get rid
of Grandison without assassinating him, and
were therefore compelled to take him back to
Kentucky, he would see that Grandison got a
taste of an article of slavery that would make
him regret his wasted opportunities. Mean¬
while he determined to tempt his servant yet
more strongly.
" Grandison," he said next morning, " I'm
going away for a day or two, but I shall leave
you here. I shall lock up a hundred dollars
in this drawer and give you the key. If you
need any of it, use it and enjoy yourself, —
spend it all if you like, — for this is probably
the last chance you '11 have for some time to
be in a free State, and you'd better enjoy
your liberty while you may."
When he came back a couple of days later
and found the faithful Grandison at his post,
and the hundred dollars intact, Dick felt seri¬
ously annoyed. His vexation was increased
by the fact that he could not express his
feelings adequately. He did not even scold
Grandison; how could he, indeed, find fault
with one who so sensibly recognized his true
place in the economy of civilization, and kept
it with such touching fidelity ?


THE PASSING OF GH AN BISON 189
" I can't say a thing to him," groaned
Dick. " He deserves a leather medal, made
out of his own hide tanned. I reckon I'll
write to father and let him know what a
model servant he has given me."
He wrote his father a letter which made the
colonel swell with pride and pleasure. " I
really think," the colonel observed to one of
his friends, "that Dick ought to have the
nigger interviewed by the Boston papers, so
that they may see how contented and happy
our darkeys really are."
Dick also wrote a long letter to Charity
Lomax, in which he said, among many other
things, that if she knew how hard he was
working, and under what difficulties, to ac¬
complish something serious for her sake, she
would no longer keep him in suspense, but
overwhelm him with love and admiration.
Having thus exhausted without result the
more obvious methods of getting rid of Gran-
dison, and diplomacy having also proved a
failure, Dick was forced to consider more
radical measures. Of course he might run
away himself, and abandon Grandison, but
this would be merely to leave him in the
United States, where he was still a slave, and


190 THE PASSING OF GRAN BISON
where, with his notions of loyalty, he would
speedily be reclaimed. It was necessary, in
order to accomplish the purpose of his trip to
the North, to leave Grandison permanently in
Canada, where he would be legally free.
" I might extend my trip to Canada," he
reflected, "but that would be too palpable.
I have it! I '11 visit Niagara Falls on the
way home, and lose him on the Canada side.
When he once realizes that he is actually
free, I '11 warrant that he '11 stay."
So the next day saw them westward bound,
and in due course of time, by the somewhat
slow conveyances of the period, they found
themselves at Niagara. Dick walked and
drove about the Falls for several days, taking
Grandison along with him on most occasions.
One morning they stood on the Canadian
side, watching the wild whirl of the waters
below them.
" Grandison," said Dick, raising his voice
above the roar of the cataract, " do you know
where you are now ? "
" I's wid you, Mars Dick; dat's all I
keers."
" You are now in Canada, Grandison, where
your people go when they run away from


192 THE PASSING OF GRANDISON
ordered a glass of ale and a sandwich, and
took a seat at a table by a window, from
which he could see Grandison in the distance.
For a while he hoped that the seed he had
sown might have fallen on fertile ground,
and that Grandison, relieved from the re¬
straining power of a master's eye, and find¬
ing himself in a free country, might get up
and walk away; but the hope was vain, for
Grandison remained faithfully at. his post,
awaiting his master's return. He had seated
himself on a broad flat stone, and, turning his
eyes away from the grand and awe-inspiring
spectacle that lay close at hand, was looking
anxiously toward the inn where his master sat
cursing his ill-timed fidelity.
By and by a girl came into the room to
serve his order, and Dick very naturally
glanced at her; and as she was young and
pretty and remained in attendance, it was
some minutes before he looked for Grandison.
When he did so his faithful servant had dis¬
appeared.
To pay his reckoning and go away without
the change was a matter quickly accom¬
plished. Retracing his footsteps toward the
Falls, he saw, to his great disgust, as he ap-


THE PASSING OF GBANDISON 193
proached the spot where he had left Grandi-
son, the familiar form of his servant stretched
out on the ground, his face to the sun, his
mouth open, sleeping the time away, oblivious
alike to the grandeur of the scenery, the
thunderous roar of the cataract, or the insid¬
ious voice of sentiment.
" Grandison," soliloquized his master, as he
stood gazing down at his ebony encumbrance,
" I do not deserve to be an American citizen;
I ought not to have the advantages I possess
over you; and I certainly am not worthy of
Charity Lomax, if I am not smart enough to
get rid of you. I have an idea ! You shall
yet be free, and I will be the instrument of
your deliverance. Sleep on, faithful and af¬
fectionate servitor, and dream of the blue
grass and the bright skies of old Kentucky,
for it is only in your dreams that you will
ever see them again ! "
Dick retraced his footsteps towards the
inn. The young woman chanced to look out
of the window and saw the handsome young
gentleman she had waited on a few minutes
before, standing in the road a short distance
away, apparently engaged in earnest conversa¬
tion with a colored man employed as hostler


194 THE PASSING OF GBANDISON
for the inn. She thought she saw something
pass from the "white man to the other, but at
that moment her duties called her away from
the window, and when she looked out again
the young gentleman had disappeared, and
the hostler, with two other young men of the
neighborhood, one white and one colored,
were walking rapidly towards the Falls.
IY
Dick made the journey homeward alone,
and as rapidly as the conveyances of the day
would permit. As he drew near home his
conduct in going back without Grandison
took on a more serious aspect than it had
borne at any previous time, and although he
had prepared the colonel by a letter sent
several days ahead, there was still the pro¬
spect of a bad quarter of an hour with him ;
not, indeed, that his father would upbraid
him, but he was likely to make searching in¬
quiries. And notwithstanding the vein of
quiet recklessness that had carried Dick
through his preposterous scheme, he was a
very poor liar, having rarely had occasion or
inclination to tell anything* but the truth.


THE PASSING OF GRANDISON 195
Any reluctance to meet his father was more
than offset, however, by a stronger force draw¬
ing him homeward, for Charity Lomax must
long since have returned from her visit to her
aunt in Tennessee.
Dick got off easier than he had expected.
He told a straight story, and a truthful one,
so far as it went.
The colonel raged at first, but rage soon
subsided into anger, and anger moderated
into annoyance, and annoyance into a sort
of garrulous sense of injury. The colonel
thought he had been hardly used; he had
trusted this negro, and he had broken faith.
Yet, after all, he did not blame Grandison
so much as he did the abolitionists, who were
undoubtedly at the bottom of it.
As for Charity Lomax, Dick told her, pri¬
vately of course, that he had run his father's
man, Grandison, off to Canada, and left him
there.
" Oh, Dick," she had said with shuddering
alarm, " what have you done ? If they knew
it they'd send you to the penitentiary, like
they did that Yankee."
" But they don't know it," he had replied
seriously; adding, with an injured tone, "you


196 THE PASSING OF GRANDISON
don't seem to appreciate my heroism like
you did that of the Yankee ; perhaps it's
because I was n't caught and sent to the
penitentiary. I thought you wanted me to
do it."
" Why, Dick Owens!" she exclaimed.
" You know I never dreamed of any such
outrageous proceeding.
" But I presume I '11 have to marry you/'
she concluded, after some insistence on Dick's
part, " if only to take care of you. You
are too reckless for anything; and a man
who goes chasing all over the North, being
entertained by New York and Boston society
and having negroes to throw away, needs
some one to look after him."
"It's a most remarkable thing," replied
Dick fervently, " that your views correspond
exactly with my profoundest convictions. It
proves beyond question that we were made
for one another."
They were married three weeks later. As
each of them had just returned from a jour¬
ney, they spent their honeymoon at home.
A week after the wedding they were seated,
one afternoon, on the piazza of the colonel's


THE PASSING OF GRANDISON 197
house, where Dick had taken his bride, when
a negro from the yard ran down the lane and
threw open the big gate for the colonel's
bnggy to enter. The colonel was not alone.
Beside him, ragged and travel-stained, bowed
with weariness, and upon his face a haggard
look that told of hardship and privation, sat
the lost Grandison.
The colonel alighted at the steps.
" Take the lines, Tom," he said to the
man who had opened the gate, "and drive
round to the barn. Help Grandison down, —
poor devil, he's so stiff he can hardly move !
— and get a tub of water and wash him and
rub him down, and feed him, and give him
a big drink of whiskey, and then let him
come round and see his young master and his
new mistress."
The colonel's face wore an expression com¬
pounded of joy and indignation, — joy at
the restoration of a valuable piece of pro¬
perty ; indignation for reasons he proceeded
to state.
" It's astounding, the depths of depravity
the human heart is capable of! I was com¬
ing along the road three miles away, when
I heard some one call me from the roadside.


198 THE PASSING OF GRANDISON
I pulled up the mare, and who should come
out of the woods but Grandison. The poor
nigger could hardly crawl along, with the
help of a broken limb. I was never more
astonished in my life. You could have
knocked me down with a feather. He
seemed pretty far gone, — he could hardly
talk above a whisper, —and I had to give him
a mouthful of whiskey to brace him up so he
could tell his story. It's just as I thought
from the beginning, Dick ; Grandison had no
notion of running away; he knew when he was
well off, and where his friends were. All the
persuasions of abolition liars and runaway
niggers did not move him. But the desper¬
ation of those fanatics knew no bounds;
their guilty consciences gave them no rest.
They got the notion somehow that Grandison
belonged to a nigger-catcher, and had been
brought North as a spy to help capture un¬
grateful runaway servants. They actually
kidnaped him — just think of it! — and
gagged him and bound him and threw him
rudely into a wagon, and carried him into
the gloomy depths of a Canadian forest, and
locked him in a lonely hut, and fed him on
bread and water for three weeks. One of the


THE PASSING OF GBANDISON 199
scoundrels wanted to kill him, and persuaded
the others that it ought to be done ; but they
got to quarreling about how they should do
it, and before they had their minds made up
Grandison escaped, and, keeping his back
steadily to the North Star, made his way,
after suffering incredible hardships, back to
the old plantation, back to his master, his
friends, and his home. Why, it's as good as
one of Scott's novels! Mr. Simms or some
other one of our Southern authors ought to
write it up."
" Don't you think, sir," suggested Dick,
who had calmly smoked his cigar throughout
the colonel's animated recital, " that that
kidnaping yarn sounds a little improbable ?
Is n't there some more likely explanation ? "
" Nonsense, Dick; it's the gospel truth !
Those infernal abQlitionists are capable of
anything — everything ! Just think of their
locking the poor, faithful nigger up, beating
him, kicking him, depriving him of his liberty,
keeping him on bread and water for three
long, lonesome weeks, and he all the time
pining for the old plantation ! "
There were almost tears in the colonel's
eyes at the picture of Grandison's sufferings


200 THE PASSING OF GRANDISON
that he conjured up. Dick still professed
to be slightly skeptical, and met Charity's
severely questioning eye with bland uncon¬
sciousness.
The colonel killed the fatted calf for
Grandison, and for two or three weeks the
returned wanderer's life was a slave's dream
of pleasure. His fame spread throughout
the county, and the colonel gave him a per¬
manent place among the house servants,
where he could always have him conveniently
at hand to relate his adventures to admiring
visitors.
About three weeks after Grandison's return
the colonel's faith in sable humanity was
rudely shaken, and its foundations almost
broken up. He came near losing his belief
in the fidelity of the negro to his master, —
the servile virtue most highly prized and
most sedulously cultivated by the colonel and
his kind. One Monday morning Grandison
was missing. And not only Grandison, but
his wife, Betty the maid ; his mother, aunt
Eunice; his father, uncle Ike; his brothers,
Tom and John, and his little sister Elsie,
were likewise absent from the plantation;


THE PASSING OF GRANDISON 201
and a hurried search and inquiry in the
neighborhood resulted in no information as
to their whereabouts. So much valuable
property could not be lost without an effort
to recover it, and the wholesale nature o£ the
transaction carried consternation to the hearts
of those whose ledgers were chiefly bound in
black. Extremely energetic measures were
taken by the colonel and his friends. The
fugitives were traced, and followed from point
to point, on their northward run through
Ohio. Several times the hunters were close
upon their heels, but the magnitude of the
escaping party begot unusual vigilance on
the part of those who sympathized with the
fugitives, and strangely enough, the under¬
ground railroad seemed to have had its tracks
cleared and signals set for this particular
train. Once, twice, the colonel thought he
had them, but they slipped through his
fingers.
One last glimpse he caught of his vanishing
property, as he stood, accompanied by a United
States marshal, on a wharf at a port on the
south shore of Lake Erie. On the stern of a
small steamboat which was receding rapidly
from the wharf, with her nose pointing toward


202 THE PASSING OF GBANBISON
Canada, there stood a group of familiar dark
faces, and the look they cast backward was
not one of longing for the fleshpots of Egypt.
The colonel saw Grandison point him out to
one of the crew of the vessel, who waved
his hand derisively toward the colonel. The
latter shook his fist impotently—and the
incident was closed.


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
I
Uncle Wellington Braboy was so
deeply absorbed in thought as he walked
slowly homeward from the weekly meeting
of the Union League, that he let Eis pipe go
out, a fact of which he remained oblivious
until he had reached the little frame house
in the suburbs of Patesville, where he lived
with aunt Milly, his wife. On this particular
occasion the club had been addressed by a
visiting brother from the North, Professor
Patterson, a tall, well-formed mulatto, who
wore a perfectly fitting suit of broadcloth, a
shiny silk hat, and linen of dazzling whiteness,
—in short, a gentleman of such distinguished
appearance that the doors and windows of the
offices and stores on Front Street were filled
with curious observers as he passed through
that thoroughfare in the early part of the
day. This polished stranger was a travel¬
ing organizer of Masonic lodges, but he also


204 TJNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
claimed to be a high officer in the Union
League, and had been invited to lecture be¬
fore the local chapter of that organization at
Patesville.
The lecture had been largely attended, and
uncle Wellington Braboy had occupied a seat
just in front of the platform. The subject of
the lecture was " The Mental, Moral, Physical,
Political, Social, and Financial Improvement
of the Negro Race in America," a theme much
dwelt upon, with slight variations, by colored
orators. For to this struggling people, then
as now, the problem of their uncertain present
and their doubtful future was the chief con¬
cern of life. The period was the hopeful
one. The Federal Government retained
some vestige of authority in the South, and
the newly emancipated race cherished the
delusion that under the Constitution, that
enduring rock on which our liberties are
founded, and under the equal laws it pur¬
ported to guarantee, they would enter upon
the era of freedom and opportunity which
their Northern friends had inaugurated with
such solemn sanctions. The speaker pictured
in eloquent language the state of ideal equal¬
ity and happiness enjoyed by colored people


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 205
at the North : how they sent their children
to school with the white children ; how they
sat by white people in the churches and thea¬
tres, ate with them in the public restaurants,
and buried their dead in the same cemeteries.
The professor waxed eloquent with the de¬
velopment of his theme, and, as a finishing
touch to an alluring picture, assured the ex¬
cited audience that the intermarriage of the
races was common, and that he himself had
espoused a white woman.
Uncle Wellington Braboy was a deeply in¬
terested listener. He had heard something
of these facts before, but his information had
always come in such vague and questionable
shape that he had paid little attention to it.
He knew that the Yankees had freed the
slaves, and that runaway negroes had always
gone to the North to seek liberty; any such
equality, however, as the visiting brother had
depicted, was more than uncle Wellington
had ever conceived as actually existing any¬
where in the world. At first he felt inclined
to doubt the truth of the speaker's statements ;
but the cut of his clothes, the eloquence of
his language, and the flowing length of his
whiskers, were so far superior to anything


206 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
uncle Wellington had ever met among the
colored people of his native State, that he felt
irresistibly impelled to the conviction that no¬
thing less than the advantages claimed for the
North by the visiting brother could have pro¬
duced such an exquisite flower of civilization.
Any lingering doubts uncle Wellington may
have felt were entirely dispelled by the courtly
bow and cordial grasp of the hand with which
the visiting brother acknowledged the con¬
gratulations showered upon him by the audi¬
ence at the close of his address.
The more uncle Wellington's mind dwelt
upon the professor's speech, the more attrac¬
tive seemed the picture of Northern life pre¬
sented. Uncle Wellington possessed in large
measure the imaginative faculty so freely be¬
stowed by nature upon the race from which
the darker half of his blood was drawn. He
had indulged in occasional day-dreams of an
ideal state of social equality, but his wildest
flights of fancy had never located it nearer
than heaven, and he had felt some misgivings
about its practical working even there. Its
desirability he had never doubted, and the
speech of the evening before had given a
local habitation and a name to the forms his


210 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
nevertheless performed his ablutions in a per¬
functory way, and resumed his seat at the
breakfast-table.
" Ole 'oman," he asked, after the edge of
his appetite had been taken off, " how would
you lack ter live at de Norf ? "
"I dunno nuffin' 'bout de Norf," replied
aunt Milly. " It's hard 'nuff ter git erlong
heah, whar we knows all erbout it."
" De brother what 'dressed de meetin' las'
night say dat de wages at de Norf is twicet
ez big ez dey is heah."
" You could make a sight mo' wages heah
O O
ef you'd 'ten' ter yo' wuk better," replied
aunt Milly.
Uncle Wellington ignored this personality,
and continued, " An' he say de cullud folks
got all de privileges er de w'ite folks, —
dat dey chillen goes ter school tergedder,
dat dey sets on same seats in chu'ch, an'
sarves on jury, 'n' rides on de kyars an' steam¬
boats wid de w'ite folks, an' eats at de fus'
table."
" Dat 'u'd suit you," chuckled aunt Milly,
" an' you'd stay dere fer de seeon' table, too.
How dis man know 'bout all dis yer foolis'-
ness?" she asked incredulously.


212 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
good-looking black woman, of middle age,
every curve of whose ample figure — and
her figure was all curves — was suggestive
of repose. So far from being indolent, or
even deliberate in her movements, she was
the most active and energetic woman in the
town. She went through the physical exer¬
cises of a prayer-meeting with astonishing
vigor. It was exhilarating to see her wash a
shirt, and a study to watch her do it up. A
quick jerk shook out the dampened garment;
one pass of her ample palm spread it over the
ironing-board, and a few well-directed strokes
with the iron accomplished what would have
occupied the ordinary laundress for half an
hour.
To this uncommon, and in uncle Welling¬
ton's opinion unnecessary and unnatural ac¬
tivity, his own habits were a steady protest.
If aunt Milly had been willing to support
him in idleness, he would have acquiesced
without a murmur in her habits of industry.
This she would not do, and, moreover, in¬
sisted on his working at least half the time.
If she had invested the proceeds of her labor
in rich food and fine clothing, he might have
endured it better; but to her passion for


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 213
work was added a most detestable thrift.
She absolutely refused to pay for Wellington's
clothes, and required him to furnish a certain
proportion of the family supplies. Her sav¬
ings were carefully put by, and with them
she had bought and paid for the modest cot¬
tage which she and her husband occupied.
Under her careful hand it was always neat
and clean; in summer the little yard was gay
with bright-colored flowers, and woe to the
heedless pickaninny who should stray into her
yard and pluck a rose or a verbena! In a
stout oaken chest under her bed she kept a
capacious stocking, into which flowed a steady
stream of fractional currency. She carried
the key to this chest in her pocket, a pro¬
ceeding regarded by uncle Wellington with
no little disfavor. He was of the opinion —
an opinion he would not have dared to assert
in her presence — that his wife's earnings
were his own property; and he looked upon
this stocking as a drunkard's wife might re¬
gard the saloon which absorbed her husband's
wages.
Uncle Wellington hurried over the potato
patch on the morning of the conversation
above recorded, and as soon as he saw aunt


214 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
Milly go away with a basket of clothes on
her head, returned to the house, put on his
coat, and went uptown.
He directed his steps to a small frame
building fronting on the main street of the
village, at a point where the street was inter¬
sected by one of the several creeks mean¬
dering through the town, cooling the air,
providing numerous swimming-holes for the
amphibious small boy, and furnishing water-
power for grist-mills and saw-mills. The rear
of the building rested on long brick pillars,
built up from the bottom of the steep bank
of the creek, while the front was level with
the street. This was the office of Mr. Mat¬
thew Wright, the sole representative of the
colored race at the bar of Chinquapin County.
Mr. Wright came of an "old issue" free
colored family, in which, though the negro
blood was present in an attenuated strain, a
line of free ancestry could be traced beyond
the Revolutionary War. He had enjoyed
exceptional opportunities, and enjoyed the
distinction of being the first, and for a long
time the only colored lawyer in North Caro¬
lina. His services were frequently called into
requisition by impecunious people of his own


216 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
nized as his actually, as soon as lie can secure
possession of it."
" Dat is ter say, suh — my eddication don'
quite 'low me ter understan' dat — dat is ter
say " —
" That is to say, it's yours when you get
it. It is n't yours so that the law will help
you get it; but on the other hand, when you
once lay your hands on it, it is yours so that
the law won't take it away from you."
Uncle Wellington nodded to express his
full comprehension of the law as expounded
by Mr. Wright, but scratched his head in
a way that expressed some disappointment.
The law seemed to wobble. Instead of en¬
abling him to stand up fearlessly and de¬
mand his own, it threw him back upon his
own efforts; and the prospect of his being
able to overpower or outwit aunt Milly by
any ordinary means was very poor.
He did not leave the office, but hung
around awhile as though there were some¬
thing further he wished to speak about.
Finally, after some discursive remarks about
the crops and politics, he asked, in an off¬
hand, disinterested manner, as though the
thought had just occurred to him : —


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 219
even if you should want to marry again. You
were never legally married."
" So Milly ain't my lawful wife, den ? "
"She may be your wife in one sense of the
word, but not in such a sense as to render
you liable to punishment for bigamy if you
should marry another woman. But I hope
you will never want to do anything of the
kind, for you have a very good wife now."
Uncle Wellington went away thoughtfully,
but with a feeling of unaccustomed lightness
and freedom. He had not felt so free since
the memorable day when he had first heard of
the Emancipation Proclamation. On leaving
the lawyer's office, he called at the workshop
of one of . his friends, Peter Williams, a shoe¬
maker by trade, who had a brother living in
Ohio.
" Is you hearn f'm Sam lately ? " uncle
Wellington inquired, after the conversation
had drifted through the usual generalities.
u His mammy got er letter f'm 'im las' week;
he's livin' in de town er Groveland now."
a How's he gittin' on ? "
" He says he gittin' on monst'us well. He
'low ez how he make five dollars a day w'ite-
washin', an' have all he kin do."


220 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
The shoemaker related various details of
his brother's prosperity, and uncle Welling¬
ton returned home in a very thoughtful mood,
revolving in his mind a plan of future action.
This plan had been vaguely assuming form
ever since the professor's lecture, and the
events of the morning had brought out the
detail in bold relief.
Two days after the conversation with the
shoemaker, aunt Milly went, in the afternoon,
to visit a sister of hers who lived several miles
out in the country. During her absence,
which lasted until nightfall, uncle Welling¬
ton went uptown and purchased a cheap oil¬
cloth valise from a shrewd son of Israel,
who had- penetrated to this locality with a
stock of notions and cheap clothing. Uncle
Wellington had his purchase done up in
brown paper, and took the parcel under his
arm. Arrived at home he unwrapped the
valise, and thrust into its capacious jaws his
best suit of clothes, some underwear, and a
few other small articles for personal use and
adornment. Then he carried the valise out
into the yard, and, first looking cautiously
around to see if there was any one in sight,
concealed it in a clump of bushes in a corner
of the yard.


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 221
It may be inferred from this proceeding
that uncle Wellington was preparing for a
step of some consequence. In fact, he had
fully made up his mind to go to the North;
but he still lacked the most important requi¬
site for traveling with comfort, namely, the
money to pay his expenses. The idea of
tramping the distance which separated him
from the promised land of liberty and equality
had never occurred to him. When a slave,
he had several times been importuned by fel¬
low servants to join them in the attempt to
escape from bondage, but he had never
wanted his freedom badly enough to walk a
thousand miles for it; if he could have
gone to Canada by stage-coach, or by rail, or
on horseback, with stops for regular meals,
he would probably have undertaken the trip.
The funds he now needed for his journey
were in aunt Milly's chest. He had thought
a great deal about his right to this money.
It was his wife's savings, and he had never
dared to dispute, openly, her right to exercise
exclusive control over what she earned; but
the lawyer had assured him of his right to the
money, of which he was already constructively
in possession, and he had therefore deter-


222 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
mined to possess himself actually of the
coveted stocking. It was impracticable for
him to get the key of the chest. Aunt Milly
kept it in her pocket by day and under her
pillow at night. She 'was a light sleeper, and,
if not awakened by the abstraction of the
key, would certainly have been disturbed by
the unlocking of the chest. But one alterna¬
tive remained, and that was to break open the
chest in her absence.
There was a revival in progress at the col¬
ored Methodist church. Aunt Milly was as
energetic in her religion as in other respects,
and had not missed a single one of the meet¬
ings. She returned at nightfall from her
visit to the country and prepared a frugal
supper. Uncle Wellington did not eat as
heartily as usual. Aunt Milly perceived his
want of appetite, and spoke of it. He ex¬
plained it by saying that he did not feel very
well.
" Is you gwine ter chu'ch ter-night ?"
inquired his wife.
" I reckon I '11 stay home an' go ter bed,"
he replied. " I ain't be'n feelin' well dis
evenin', an' I 'spec' I better git a good night's
res'."


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 223
" Well, you kin stay ef you mineter. Good
preacliin' 'u'd make you feel better, but ef
you ain't gwine, don' fergit ter tote in some
wood an' lighterd 'fo' you go ter bed. De
moon is shinin' bright, an' you can't have no
'scuse 'bout not bein' able ter see."
Uncle Wellington followed her out to the
gate, and watched her receding form until it
disappeared in the distance. Then he re¬
entered the house with a quick step, and tak¬
ing a hatchet from a corner of the room, drew
the chest from under the bed. As he applied
the hatchet to the fastenings, a thought
struck him, and by the flickering light of the
pine-knot blazing on the hearth, a look of
hesitation might have been seen to take the
place of the determined expression his face
had worn up to that time. He had argued
himself into the belief that his present action
was lawful and justifiable. Though this con¬
viction had not prevented him from trembling
in every limb, as though he were committing
a mere vulgar theft, it had still nerved him to
the deed. Now even his moral courage began
to weaken. The lawyer had told him that his
wife's property was his own; in taking it he
was therefore only exercising his lawful right.


224 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
But at the point of breaking open the chest,
it occurred to him that he was taking this
money in order to get away from aunt Milly,
and that he justified his desertion of her by
the lawyer's opinion that she was not his law¬
ful wife. If she was not his wife, then he had
no right to take the money ; if she was his
wife, he had no right to desert her, and would
certainly have no right to marry another
woman. His scheme was about to go to
shipwreck on this rock, when another idea
occurred to him.
" De lawyer say dat in one sense er de word
de ole 'oman is my wife, an' in anudder sense
er de word she ain't my wife. Ef I goes ter
de Norf an' marry a w'ite 'oman, I ain't com¬
mit no brigamy, 'caze in dat sense er de word
she ain't my wife ; but ef I takes dis money,
I ain't stealin' it, 'caze in dat sense er de word
she is my wife. Dat 'splains all de trouble
away."
Having reached this ingenious conclusion,
uncle Wellington applied the hatchet vigor-'
ously, soon loosened the fastenings of the
chest, and with trembling hands extracted
from its depths a capacious blue cotton stock'
ing. He emptied the stocking on the table.


226 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
avoiding the few people who were abroad at
that hour, and soon reached the railroad sta¬
tion, from which a North-bound train left at
nine o'clock. He went around to the dark
side of the train, and climbed into a second-
class car, where he shrank into the darkest
corner and turned his face away from the dim
light of the single dirty lamp. There were
no passengers in the car except one or two
sleepy negroes, who had got on at some other
station, and a white man who had gone into
the car to smoke, accompanied by a gigantic
bloodhound.
Finally the train crept out of the station.
From the window uncle Wellington looked
out upon the familiar cabins and turpentine
stills, the new barrel factory, the brickyard
where he had once worked for some time;
and as the train rattled through the outskirts
of the town, Jie saw gleaming in the moon¬
light the white headstones of the colored ceme¬
tery where his only daughter had been buried
several years before.
Presently the conductor came around.
Uncle Wellington had not bought a ticket,
and the conductor collected a cash fare. He
was not acquainted with uncle Wellington,


UNCLE WELLINGTON''S WIVES 227
but had just had a drink at the saloon near
the depot, and felt at peace with all man¬
kind.
"Where are you going, uncle?" he in¬
quired carelessly.
Uncle Wellington's face assumed the ashen
hue which does duty for pallor in dusky
countenances, and his knees began to tremble.
Controlling his voice as well as he could, he
replied that he was going up to Jonesboro>
the terminus of the railroad, to work for a
gentleman at that place. He felt immensely
relieved when the conductor pocketed the
fare, picked up his lantern, and moved away.
It was very unphilosophical and very absurd
that a man who was only doing right should
feel like a thief, shrink from the sight of
other people, and lie instinctively. Fine dis¬
tinctions were not in uncle Wellington's line,
but he was struck by the unreasonableness of
his feelings, and still more by the discomfort
they caused him. By and by, however, the
motion of the train made him drowsy; his
thoughts all ran together in confusion ; and
he fell asleep with his head on his valise, and
one hand in his pocket, clasped tightly around
the roll of money.


228 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
II
The train from Pittsburg drew into the
Union Depot at Groveland, Ohio, one morn¬
ing in the spring of 187-, with bell ringing
and engine puffing; and from a smoking-car
emerged the form of uncle Wellington Bra-
boy, a little dusty and travel-stained, and with
a sleepy look about his eyes. He mingled in
the crowd, and, valise in hand, moved toward
the main exit from the depot. There were
several tracks to be crossed, and more than
once a watchman snatched him out of the
way of a baggage-truck, or a train backing
into the depot. He at length reached the
door, beyond which, and as near as the regu¬
lations would permit, stood a number of hack-1
men, vociferously soliciting patronage. One
of them, a colored man, soon secured several
passengers. As he closed the door after the
last one he turned to uncle Wellington, who
stood near him on the sidewalk, looking about
irresolutely.
" Is you goin' uptown ? " asked the hack-
man, as he prepared to mount the box.
" Yas, suh."
" I '11 take you up fo' a quahtah, ef you


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 229
want ter git up here an' ride on de box wid
me."
Uncle Wellington accepted the offer and
mounted the box. The hackman whipped up
his horses, the carriage climbed the steep hill
leading up to the town, and the passengers
inside were soon deposited at their hotels.
" Whereabouts do you want to go ? " asked
the hackman of uncle Wellington, when the
carriage was emptied of its last passengers.
" I want ter go ter Brer Sam Williams's,"
said Wellington.
" What's his street an' number ? "
Uncle Wellington did not know the street
and number, and the hackman had to explain
to him the mystery of numbered houses, to
which he was a total stranger.
" Where is he from? " asked the hackman,
" and what is his business ? "
"He is f'm Norf Ca'lina," replied uncle
Wellington, " an' makes his livin' w'ite-
© '
washin'."
" I reckon I knows de man," said the
hackman. " I 'spec' he's changed his name.
De man I knows is name' Johnson. He
b'longs ter my chu'ch. I'm gwine out dat
way ter git a passenger fer de ten o'clock
train, an' I '11 take you by dere."


280 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
They followed one of the least handsome
streets of the city for more than a mile,
turned into a cross street, and drew up before
a small frame house, from the front of which
a sign, painted in white upon a black back¬
ground, announced to the reading public, in
letters inclined to each other at various an¬
gles, that whitewashing and kalsomining were
" dun " there. A knock at the door brought
out a slatternly looking colored woman. She
had evidently been disturbed at her toilet, for
she held a comb in one hand, and the hair on
one side of her head stood out loosely, while
on the other side it was braided close to her
head. She called her husband, who proved
to be the Patesville shoemaker's brother.
The hackman introduced the traveler, whose
name he had' learned on the way out, collected
his quarter, and drove away.
Mr. Johnson, the shoemaker's brother, wel¬
comed uncle Wellington to Groveland, and
listened with eager delight to the news of the
old town, from which he himself had run
away many years before, and followed the
North Star to Groveland. He had changed
his name from " Williams " to " Johnson," on
account of the Fugitive Slave Law, which,


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 231
at the time of his escape from bondage, had
rendered it advisable for runaway slaves to
court obscurity. After the war he had re¬
tained the adopted name. Mrs. Johnson pre¬
pared breakfast for her guest, who ate it with
an appetite sharpened by his journey. After
breakfast he went to bed, and slept until late
in the afternoon.
After supper Mr. Johnson took uncle Wel¬
lington to visit some of the neighbors who
had come from North Carolina before the
war. They all expressed much pleasure at
meeting " Mr. Braboy," a title which at first
sounded a little odd to uncle Wellington.
At home he had been "Wellin'ton," "Brer
Wellin'ton," or "uncle Wellin'ton;" it was
a novel experience to be called " Mister," and
he set. it down, with secret satisfaction, as one
of the first fruits of Northern liberty.
" Would you lack ter look 'roun' de town
a little ?" asked Mr. Johnson at breakfast
next morning. " I ain' got no job dis mawn-
in', an' Lkin show you some er de sights."
Uncle Wellington acquiesced in this ar¬
rangement, and they walked up to the cor¬
ner to the street-car line. In a few moments
a car passed. Mr. Johnson jumped on the


232 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
moving car, and uncle Wellington followed
his example, at the risk of life or limb, as it
was his first experience of street cars.
There was only one vacant seat in the car
and that was between two white women in
the forward end. Mr. Johnson motioned to
the seat, but Wellington shrank from walking
between those two rows of white people, to
say nothing of sitting between the two women,
so he remained standing in the rear part of
the car. A moment later, as the car rounded
a short curve, he was pitched sidewise into
the lap of a stout woman magnificently at¬
tired in a ruffled blue calico gown. The
lady colored up, and uncle Wellington, as he
struggled to his feet amid the laughter of the
passengers, was absolutely helpless with em¬
barrassment, until the conductor came up
behind him and pushed him toward the
vacant place.
" Sit down, will you," he said; and before
uncle Wellington could collect himself, he
was seated between the two white women.
Everybody in the car seemed to be looking at
him. But he came to the conclusion, after
he had pulled himself together and reflected
a few moments, that he would find this


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 235
began to lose its plumpness, and with an
empty pocket staring him in the face, he felt
the necessity of finding something to do.
Daring his residence in the city he had met
several times his first acquaintance, Mr. Peter¬
son, the hackman, who from time to time
inquired how he was getting along. On one
of these occasions Wellington mentioned his
willingness to accept employment. As good
luck would have it, Mr. Peterson knew of
a vacant situation. He had formerly been
coachman for a wealthy gentleman residing
on Oakwood Avenue, but had resigned the
situation to go into business for himself. His
place had been filled by an Irishman, who
had just been discharged for drunkenness, and
the gentleman that very day had sent word to
Mr. Peterson, asking him if he could recom¬
mend a competent and trustworthy coachman.
" Does you know anything erbout hosses ? "
asked Mr. Peterson.
"Yas, indeed, I does," said Wellington.
" I wuz raise' 'mongs' hosses."
u I tol' my ole boss I'd look out fer a man,
an' ef you reckon you kin fill de 'quirements
er de situation, I '11 take yo' roun' dere ter-
morrer mornin'. You wants ter put on yo'


236 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
bes' clothes an' slick up, fer dey 're partic'lar
people. Ef you git de place I '11 expec' you
ter pay me fer de time I lose in 'ten din' ter
yo' business, fer time is money in dis country,
an' folks don't do much fer nuthin'."
Next morning Wellington blacked his shoes
carefully, put on a clean collar, and with the
aid of Mrs. Johnson tied his cravat in a
jaunty bow which gave him quite a sprightly
air and a much younger look than his years
warranted. Mr. Peterson called for him at
eight o'clock. After traversing several cross
streets they turned into Oakwood Avenue and
walked along the finest part of it for about
half a mile. The handsome houses of this
famous avenue, the stately trees, the wide-
spreading lawns, dotted with flower beds,
fountains and statuary, made up a picture so
far surpassing anything in Wellington's ex¬
perience as to fill him with an almost oppres¬
sive sense of its beauty.
" Hit looks lack hebben," he said softly.
" It's a pootty fine street," rejoined his
companion, with a judicial air, "but I don't
like dem big lawns. It's too much trouble
ter keep de grass down. One er dem lawns
is big enough to pasture a couple er cows."


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 237
They went down a street running at right
angles to the avenue, and turned into the
rear of the corner lot. A large building of
pressed brick, trimmed with stone, loomed up
before them.
" Do de gemman lib in dis house ? " asked
Wellington, gazing with awe at the front of
the building.
" No, dat's de barn," said Mr. Peterson
with good-natured contempt; and leading the
way past a clump of shrubbery to the dwell¬
ing-house, he went up the back steps and rang
the door-bell.
The ring was answered by a buxom Irish¬
woman, of a natural freshness of complexion
deepened to a fiery red by the heat of a
kitchen range. Wellington thought he had
seen her before, but his mind had received so
many new impressions lately that it was a
minute or two before he recognized in her the
lady whose lap he had involuntarily occupied
for a moment on his first day in Groveland.
" Faith," she exclaimed as she admitted
them, " an' it -'s mighty glad I am to see
ye ag'in, Misther Payterson! An' how hev
ye be'n, Misther Payterson, sence I see ye
lahst ? "


288 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
" Middlin' well, Mis' Flannigan, middlin'
well, 'ceptin' a tech er de rheumatiz. S'pose
you be'n doin' well as usual ? "
" Oh yis, as well as a dacent woman could
do wid a drunken baste about the place like
the lahst coachman. 0 Misther Payterson,
it would make yer heart bleed to see the way
the spalpeen cut up a-Saturday ! But Misther
Todd discharged 'im the same avenin', widout
a characther, bad 'cess to 'im, an' we've had
no coachman sence at all, at all. An' it's
sorry I am " —
The lady's flow of eloquence was interrupted
at this point by the appearance of Mr. Todd
himself, who had been informed of the men's
arrival. He asked some questions in regard
to Wellington's qualifications and former ex¬
perience, and in view of his recent arrival in
the city was willing to accept Mr. Peterson's
recommendation instead of a reference. He
said a few words about the nature of the
work, and stated his willingness to pay Wel¬
lington the wages formerly allowed Mr. Peter¬
son, thirty dollars a month and board and
lodging.
This handsome offer was eagerly accepted,
and it was agreed that Wellington's term of


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 239
service should begin immediately. Mr. Peter¬
son, being familiar with the work, and finan¬
cially interested, conducted the new coachman
through the stables and showed him what he
would have to do. The silver-mounted har¬
ness, the variety of carriages, the names of
which he learned for the first time, the ar¬
rangements for feeding and watering the
horses, — these appointments of a rich man's
stable impressed Wellington very much, and
he wondered that so much luxury should be
wasted on mere horses. The room assigned
to him, in the second story of the barn, was
a finer apartment than he had ever slept in;
and the salary attached to the situation was
greater than the combined monthly earnings
of himself and aunt Milly in their Southern
home. Surely, he thought, his lines had
fallen in pleasant places.
Under the stimulus of new surroundings
Wellington applied himself diligently to work,
and, with the occasional advice of Mr. Peter¬
son, soon mastered the details of his employ¬
ment. He found the female servants, with
whom he took his meals, very amiable ladies.
The cook, Mrs. Katie Flannigan, was a widow.
Her husband, a sailor, had been lost at sea.


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 241
He had come to the city alone, had never
been heard to speak of a wife, and to personal
questions bearing upon the subject of matri¬
mony had' always returned evasive answers.
Though he had never questioned the correct¬
ness of the lawyer's opinion in regard to his
slave marriage, his conscience had never been
entirely at ease since his departure from the
South, and any positive denial of his married
condition would have stuck in his throat.
The inference naturally drawn from his reti¬
cence in regard to the past, coupled with his
expressed intention of settling permanently
in Groveland, was that he belonged in the
ranks of "the unmarried, and was therefore
legitimate game for any widow or old maid
who could bring him down. As such game
is bagged easiest at short range, he received
numerous invitations to tea-parties, where he
feasted on unlimited chicken and pound cake.
He used to compare these viands with the
plain fare often served by aunt Milly, and
the result of the comparison was another item
to the credit of the North upon his mental
ledger. Several of the colored ladies who
smiled upon him were blessed with good looks,
and uncle Wellington, naturally of a suscep-


244 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
clean woman, 'at knowed how to cook an' wash
an' iron, ter look afther ye, an' make yer life
comfortable."
Uncle Wellington sighed, and looked at
her languishingly.
" It 'u'd all be well ernuff, Mis' Flannigan,
ef I had n' met you ; but I don' know whar
I's ter fin' a colored lady w'at '11 begin ter
suit me after habbin' libbed in de same house
wid you."
" Colored l^dy, indade ! Why, Misther Bra-
boy, ye don't nade ter demane yerself by
marryin' a colored lady — not but they 're as
good as anybody else, so long as they behave
themselves. There's many a white woman
'u'd be glad ter git as fine a lookin' man as ye
are."
" Now you 're flattrin' me, Mis'^ Flanni-
gan," said Wellington. But he felt a sudden
and substantial increase in courage when she
had spoken, and it was with astonishing ease
that he found himself saying: —
" Dey ain' but one lady, Mis' Flannigan,
dat could injuce me ter want ter change de
lonesomeness er my singleness fer de 'sponsi-
bilities er matermony, an' I'm feared she'd
say no ef I'd ax her."


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 245
"Ye'd better ax her, Misther Braboy, an*
not be wastin' time a-wond'rin'. Do I know
the lady ? "
"You knows 'er better'n anybody else,
Mis' Flannigan. You is de only lady I'd be
satisfied ter marry after knowin' you. Ef you
casts me off I '11 spen' de rest er my days in
lonesomeness an' mis'ry."
Mrs. Flannigan affected much surprise and
embarrassment at this bold declaration.
" Oh, Misther Braboy," she said, covering
him with a coy glance, " an' it's rale 'shamed
I am to hev b'en talkin' ter ye ez I hev. It
looks as though I'd b'en doin' the coortin'.
I did n't drame that I'd b'en able, ter draw
yer affections to mesilf."
" I's loved yoil ever sence I fell in yo' lap
on de street car de fus' day I wuz *in Grove-
land," he said, as he moved his chair up
closer to hers..
One evening in the following week they
went out after supper to the residence of
Rev. Caesar Williams, pastor of the colored
Baptist church, and, after the usual prelimi¬
naries, were pronounced man and wife.


246 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
III
According to all his preconceived notions,
this marriage ought to have been the acme
of uncle Wellington's felicity. But he soon
found that it was not without its drawbacks.
On the following morning Mr. Todd was in¬
formed of the marriage. He had no special
objection to it, or interest in it, except that he
was opposed on principle to having husband
and wife in his employment at the same time.
As a consequence, Mrs. Braboy, whose place
could be more easily filled than that of her
husband, received notice that her services
would not be required after the end of the
month. Her husband was retained in his
place as coachman.
Upon the loss of her situation, Mrs. Braboy
decided to exercise the married woman's pre¬
rogative of letting her husband support her.
She rented the upper floor of a small house
in an Irish neighborhood. The newly wedded
pair furnished their rooms on the installment
plan and began housekeeping.
There was one little circumstance, however,
that interfered slightly with their enjoyment
of that perfect freedom from care which ought


248 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
For a while, affairs ran smoothly in the new
home. The colored people seemed, at first,
well enough disposed toward Mrs. Braboy,
and she made quite a large acquaintance
among them. It was difficult, however, for
Mrs. Braboy to divest herself of the conscious¬
ness that she was white, and therefore superior
to her neighbors. Occasional words and acts
by which she manifested this feeling were
noticed and resented by her keen-eyed and
sensitive colored neighbors. The result was
a slight coolness between them. That her
few white neighbors did not visit her, she
naturally and no doubt correctly imputed to
disapproval of her matrimonial relations.
Under these circumstances, Mrs. Braboy
was left a good deal to her own company.
Owing to lack of opportunity in early life, she
was not a woman of many resources, either
mental or moral. It is therefore not strange
that, in order to relieve her loneliness, she
should occasionally have recourse to a glass
of beer, and, as the habit grew upon her,
to still stronger stimulants. Uncle Welling¬
ton himself was no teetotaler, and did not
interpose any objection so long as she kept
her potations within reasonable limits, and


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 249
was apparently none the worse for them;
indeed, he sometimes joined her in a glass.
On one of these occasions he drank a little
too much, and, while driving the ladies of
Mr. Todd's family to the opera, ran against a
lamp-post and overturned the carriage, to the
serious discomposure of the ladies' nerves,
and at the cost of his situation.
A coachman discharged under such cir¬
cumstances is not in the best position for
procuring employment at his calling, and
uncle Wellington, under the pressure of
need, was obliged to seek some other means
of livelihood. At the suggestion of his friend
Mr. Johnson, he bought a whitewash brush, a
peck of lime, a couple of pails, and a hand¬
cart, and began work as a whitewasher. His
first efforts were very crude, and for a while
he lost a customer in every person he worked
for. He nevertheless managed to pick up a
living during the spring and summer months,
and to support his wife and himself in com¬
parative comfort.
The approach of winter put an end to the
whitewashing season, and left uncle Welling¬
ton dependent for support upon occasional jobs
of unskilled labor. The income derived from


250 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
these was very uncertain, and Mrs. Braboy
was at length driven, by stress of circum¬
stances, to the washtub, that last refuge of
honest, able-bodied poverty, in all countries
where the use of clothing is conventional.
The last state of uncle Wellington was now
worse than the first. Under the soft firm¬
ness of aunt Milly's rule, he had not been
required to do a great deal of work, prompt
and cheerful obedience being chiefly what was
expected of him. But matters were very dif¬
ferent here. He had not only to bring in the
coal and water, but to rub the clothes and
turn the wringer, and to humiliate himself
before the public by emptying the tubs and
hanging out the wash in full view of the
neighbors ; and he had to deliver the clothes
when laundered.
At times Wellington found himself won¬
dering if his second marriage had been a wise
one. Other circumstances combined to change
in some degree his once rose-colored concep¬
tion of life at the North. He had believed
that all men were equal in this favored local¬
ity, but he discovered more degrees of inequal¬
ity than he had ever perceived at the South.
A colored man might be as good as a white


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 251
man in theory, but neither of them was of any
special consequence without money, or talent,
or position. Uncle Wellington found a great
many privileges open to him at the North, but
he had not been educated to the point where
he could appreciate them or take advantage
of them; and the enjoyment of many of them
was expensive, and, for that reason alone, as
far beyond his reach as they had ever been.
When he once began to admit even the pos¬
sibility of a mistake on his part, these con¬
siderations presented themselves to his mind
with increasing force. On occasions when
Mrs. Braboy would require of him some un¬
usual physical exertion, or when too fre¬
quent applications to the bottle had loosened
her tongue, uncle Wellington's mind would
revert, with a remorseful twinge of conscience,
to the dolce far niente of his Southern home;
a film would come over his eyes and brain,
and, instead of the red-faced Irishwoman op¬
posite him, he could see the black but comely
disk of aunt Milly's countenance bending
over the washtub ; the elegant brogue of Mrs.
Braboy would deliquesce into the soft dialect
of North Carolina; and he would only be
aroused from this blissful reverie by a wet


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 253
boarding a passing street car, paid one of his
very few five-cent pieces to ride down to the
office of the Hon. Mr. Brown, the colored
lawyer whom he had visited when he first
came to the city, and who was well known
to him by sight and reputation.
" Mr. Brown," he said," I ain' gitt'n' 'long
very well wid my ole 'oman."
" What's the trouble ? " asked the lawyer,
with business-like curtness, for he did not
scent much of a fee.
" Well, de main trouble is she doan treat
me right. An' den she gits drunk, an' wuss'n
dat, she lays vi'lent han's on me. I kyars de
marks er dat 'oman on my face now."
He showed the lawyer a long scratch on the
neck.
" Why don't you defend yourself ? "
"You don' know Mis' Braboy, suh; you
don' know dat 'oman," he replied, with a
shake of the head. " Some er dese yer w'ite
women is monst'us strong in de wris'."
"Well, Mr. Braboy, it's what you might
have expected when you turned your back
on your own people and married a white
woman. You weren't content with being
a slave to the white folks once, but you must


254 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
try it again. Some people never know when
they've got enough. I don't see that there's
any help for you ; unless," he added sugges¬
tively, " you had a good deal of money."
" 'Pears ter me I heared somebody say
sence I be'n up heah, dat it wuz 'gin de law
fer w'ite folks an' colored folks ter marry."
" That was once the law, though it has
always been a dead letter in Groveland. In
fact, it was the law when you got married,
and until I introduced a bill in the legislature
last fall to repeal it. But even that law
did n't hit cases like yours. It was unlawful
to make such a marriage, but it was a good
marriage when once made."
" I don' jes' git dat th'oo my head," said
Wellington, scratching that member as though
to make a hole for the idea to enter.
" It's quite plain, Mr. Braboy. It's un¬
lawful to kill a man, but when he's killed
he's just as dead as though the law permitted
it. I'm afraid you have n't much of a case,
but if you '11 go to work and get twenty-five
dollars together? I '11 see what I can do for
you. We may be able to pull a case through
on the ground of extreme cruelty. I might
even start the case if you brought in ten
dollars."


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 255
Wellington went away sorrowfully. The
laws of Ohio were very little more satisfactory
than those of North Carolina. And as for
the ten dollars, — the lawyer might as well
have told him to bring in the moon, or a
deed for the Public Square. He felt very,
very low as he hurried back home to supper,
which he would have to go without if he were
not on hand at the usual supper-time.
But just when his spirits were lowest, and
his outlook for the future most hopeless, a
measure of relief was at hand. He noticed,
when he reached home, that Mrs. Braboy
was a little preoccupied, and did not abuse
him as vigorously as he expected after so
long an absence. He also perceived the smell
of strange tobacco in the house, of a better
grade than he could afford to use. He
thought perhaps some one had come in to
see about the washing; but he was too glad
of a respite from Mrs. Braboy's rhetoric to
imperil it by indiscreet questions.
Next morning she gave him fifty cents.
" Braboy," she said, " ye've be'n helpin'
me nicely wid the washin', an' I'm going ter
give ye a holiday. Ye can take yer hook an'
line an' go fishin' on the breakwater. I '11 fix


256 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
ye a lunch, an' ye need n't come back till
night. An' there's half a dollar ; ye can buy
yerself a pipe er terbacky. But be careful
an' don't waste it," she added, for fear she
was overdoing the thing.
Uncle Wellington was overjoyed at this
change of front on the part of Mrs. Braboy;
if she would make it permanent he did not
see why they might not live together very
comfortably.
The day passed pleasantly down on the
breakwater. The weather was agreeable, and
the fish bit freely. Towards evening Welling-
ton started home with a bunch of fish that
no angler need have been ashamed of. He
looked forward to a good warm supper; for
even if something should have happened
during the day to alter his wife's mood for
the worse, any ordinary variation would be
more than balanced by the substantial ad¬
dition of food to their larder. His mouth
watered at the thought of the finny beauties
sputtering in the frying-pan.
He noted, as he approached the house, that
there was no smoke coming from the chimney.
This only disturbed him in connection with
the matter of supper. When he entered the


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 257
gate he observed further that the window-
shades had been taken down.
" 'Spec' de ole 'oman's been house-cleanin',"
he said to himself. " I wonder she did n'
make me stay an' he'p 'er."
He went round to the rear of the house
and tried the kitchen door. It was locked.
This was somewhat of a surprise, and dis¬
turbed still further his expectations in regard
to supper. When he had found the key and
opened the door, the gravity of his next
discovery drove away for the time being all
thoughts of eating.
The kitchen was empty. Stove, table,
chairs, wash-tubs, pots and pans, had vanished
as if into thin air.
" Fo' de Lawd's sake !" he murmured in
open-mouthed astonishment.
He passed into the other room, —they had
only two,—which had served as bedroom and
sitting-room. It was as bare as the first,
except that in the middle of the floor were
piled uncle Wellington's clothes. It was not
a large pile, and on the top of it lay a folded
piece of yellow wrapping-paper.
Wellington stood for a moment as if petri¬
fied. Then he rubbed his eyes and looked
around him.


258 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
" W'at do dis mean ? " he said. " Is I er-
dreamin', er does I see w'at I 'pears ter see ? "
He glanced down at the bunch of fish which
he still held. " Heah's de fish ; heah's de
house; heah I is ; but whar's de ole 'oman,
an' whar's de fu'niture ? I can't figure out
w'at dis yer all means."
He picked up the piece of paper and un¬
folded it. It was written on one side. Here
was the obvious solution of the mystery, —
that is, it would have been obvious if he could
have read it; but he could not, and so his
fancy continued to play upon the subject.
Perhaps the house had been robbed, or the
furniture taken back by the seller, for it had
not been entirely paid for.
Finally he went across the street and called
to a boy in a neighbor's yard.
" Does you read writin', Johnnie?"
" Yes, sir, I'm in the seventh grade."
" Read dis yer paper fuh me."
The youngster took the note, and with much
labor read the following: —
" Mr. Braboy :
" In lavin' ye so suddint I have ter say
that my first husban' has turned up unix-


262 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
IV
Just fifteen months after the date when
uncle Wellington had left North Carolina, a
weather-beaten figure entered the town of
Patesville after nightfall, following the rail¬
road track from the north. Few would have
recognized in the hungry-looking old brown
tramp, clad in dusty rags and limping along
with bare feet, the trim-looking middle-aged
mulatto who so few months before had taken
the train from Patesville for the distant
North; so, if he had but known it, there was
no necessity for him to avoid the main streets
and sneak around by unfrequented paths to
reach the old place on the other side of the
town. He encountered nobody that he knew,
and soon the familiar shape of the little cabin
rose before him. It stood distinctly outlined
against the sky, and the light streaming from
the half-opened shutters showed it to be occu¬
pied. As he drew nearer, every familiar de¬
tail of the place appealed to his memory and
to his affections, and his heart went out to
the old home and the old wife. As he came
nearer still, the odor of fried chicken floated
out upon the air and set his mouth to water-


UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES 263
ing, and awakened unspeakable longings in
his half-starved stomach.
At this moment, however, a fearful thought
struck him; suppose the old woman had taken
legal advice and married again during his ab¬
sence ? Turn about would have been only
fair play. He opened the gate softly, and with
his heart in his mouth approached the window
on tiptoe and looked in.
A cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth,
in front of which sat the familiar form of
aunt Milly — and another, at the sight of
whom uncle Wellington's heart sank within
him. He knew the other person very well;
he had sat there more than once before uncle
Wellington went away. It was the minister
of the church to which his wife belonged.
The preacher's former visits, however, had
signified nothing more than pastoral courtesy,
or appreciation of good eating. His presence
now was of serious portent; for Wellington
recalled, with acute alarm, that the elder's
wife had died only a few weeks before his
own departure for the North. What was the
occasion of his presence this evening? Was
it merely a pastoral call? or was he courting ?
or had aunt Milly taken legal advice and mar¬
ried the eider ?


264 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
Wellington remembered a crack in the
c5
wall, at the back of the house, through which
he could see and hear, and quietly stationed
himself there.
" Dat chicken smells mighty good, Sis'
Milly," the elder was saying; " I can't fer de
life er me see why dat low-down husban' er
yo'n could ever run away f'm a cook like you.
It's one er de beatenis' things I ever heared.
How he could lib wid you an' not 'preciate
you I can't understan', no indeed I can't."
Aunt Milly sighed. " De trouble wid
Wellin'ton wuz," she replied, "dat he did n'
know when he wuz well off. He wuz alluz
wishin' fer change, er studyin' 'bout some-
thin' new."
" Ez fer me," responded the elder ear¬
nestly, " I likes things what has be'n prove'
an' tried an' has stood de tes', an' I can't
'magine how anybody could spec' ter fin' a
better housekeeper er cook dan you is, Sis'
Milly. I'm a gittin' mighty lonesone sence
my wife died. De Good Book say it is not
good fer man ter lib alone, en it 'pears ter me
dat you an' me mought git erlong tergether
monst'us well."
Wellington's heart stood still, while he


266 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
wanted me, it made me so mad, I made up
my min' dat ef he ever put his foot on my do'-
sill ag'in, I 'd shet de do' in his face an' tell
'im ter go back whar he come f'm."
To Wellington, on the outside, the cabin
had never seemed so comfortable, aunt Milly
never so desirable, chicken never so appetiz¬
ing, as at this moment when they seemed
slipping away from his grasp forever.
" Yo' feelin's does you credit, Sis' Milly,"
said the elder, taking her hand, which for a
moment she did not withdraw. u An' de way
fer you ter close yo' do' tightes' ag'inst 'im is
ter take me in his place. He ain' got no
claim on you no mo'. He tuk his ch'ice
'cordin' ter w'at de lawyer tol' 'im, an' 'ter-
mine' dat he wa'n't yo' husban'. Ef he
wa'n't yo' husban', he had no right ter take
yo' money, an' ef he comes back here ag'in
you kin hab 'im tuck up an' sent ter de peni-
tenchy fer stealin' it."
Uncle Wellington's knees, already weak
from fasting, trembled violently beneath him.
The worst that he had feared was now likely
to happen. His only hope of safety lay in
flight, and yet the scene within so fascinated
him that he could not move a step.


268 UNCLE WELLINGTON'S WIVES
up an armful of pieces. A moment later lie
threw open the door.
" Ole 'oman," he exclaimed, " here's dat
wood you tol' me ter fetch in ! Why, elder,"
he said to the preacher, who had started from
his seat with surprise, " w'at's yo' hurry ?
Won't you stay an' hab some supper wid
us?"


THE BOUQUET
Mary Mybovee's friends were somewhat
surprised when she began to teach a colored
school. Miss Myrover's friends are mentioned
here, because nowhere more than in a South¬
ern town is public opinion a force which can¬
not be lightly contravened. Public opinion,
however, did not oppose Miss Myrover's
teaching colored children; in fact, all the
colored public schools in town — and there
were several — were taught by white teachers,
and had been so taught since the State had
undertaken to provide free public instruction
for all children within its boundaries. Previ¬
ous to that time, there had been a Freedman's
Bureau school and a Presbyterian missionary
school, but these had been withdrawn when
the need for them became less pressing. The
colored people of the town had been for some
time agitating their right to teach their own
schools, but as yet the claim had not been
conceded.


270
THE BOUQUET
The reason Miss Myrover's course created
some surprise was not, therefore, the fact that
a Southern white woman should teach a col¬
ored school; it lay in the fact that up to this
time no woman of just her quality had taken
up such work. Most of the teachers of col¬
ored schools were not of those who had con¬
stituted the aristocracy of the old regime;
they might be said rather to represent the
new order of things, in which labor was in
time to become honorable, and men were,
after a somewhat longer time, to depend, for
their place in society, upon themselves rather
than upon their ancestors. Mary Myrover
belonged to one of the proudest of the old
families. Her ancestors had been people
of distinction in Virginia before a collateral
branch of the main stock had settled in North
Carolina. Before the war, they had been able
to live up to their pedigree ; but the war
brought sad changes. Miss Myrover's father
— the Colonel Myrover who led a gallant but
desperate charge at Yicksburg — had fallen
on the battlefield, and his tomb in the white
cemetery was a shrine for the family. On the
Confederate Memorial Day, no other grave
was so profusely decorated with flowers, and,


THE BOTJQUET
271
in the oration pronounced, the name of Colo¬
nel Myrover was always used to illustrate
the highest type of patriotic devotion and
self-sacrifice. Miss Myrover's brother, too,
had fallen in the conflict; but his bones lay
in some unknown trench, with those of a
thousand others who had fallen on the same
field. Ay, more, her lover, who had hoped
to come home in the full tide of victory and
claim his bride as a reward for gallantry, had
shared the fate of her father and brother.
When the war was over, the remnant of the
family found itself involved in the common
ruin, — more deeply involved, indeed, than
some others; for Colonel Myrover had be¬
lieved in the ultimate triumph of his cause,
and had invested most of his wealth in Con¬
federate bonds, which were now only so much
waste paper.
There had been a little left. Mrs. Myrover
was thrifty, and had laid by a few hundred
dollars, which she kept in the house to meet
unforeseen contingencies. There remained,
too, their home, with an ample garden and a
well-stocked orchard, besides a considerable
tract of country land, partly cleared, but pro¬
ductive of very little revenue.


THE BOUQUET
273
thing. Besides, it's only a business arrange¬
ment, and does n't involve any closer contact
than we have with our servants."
" Well, I should say not! " sniffed the old
lady. 66 Not one of them will ever dare to pre¬
sume on your position to take any liberties
with us. /'II see to that."
Miss My rover began her work as a teacher
in the autumn, at the opening of the school
year. It was a novel experience at first.
Though there had always been negro servants
in the house, and though on the streets colored
people were more numerous than those of her
own race, and though she was so familiar
with their dialect that she might almost be
said to speak it, barring certain characteristic
grammatical inaccuracies, she had never been
brought in personal contact with so many of
them at once as when she confronted the fifty
or sixty faces — of colors ranging from a
white almost as clear as her own to the dark¬
est livery of the sun — which were gathered
in the schoolroom on the morning when she
began her duties. Some of the inherited
prejudice of her caste, too, made itself felt,
though she tried to repress any outward sign
of it; and she could perceive that the chil-


274
THE BOUQUET
dren were not altogether responsive; they,
likewise, were not entirely free from antago¬
nism. The work was unfamiliar to her. She
was not physically very strong, and at the close
of the first day went home with a splitting
headache. If she could have resigned then
and there without causing comment or annoy¬
ance to others, she would have felt it a privi¬
lege to do so. But a night's rest banished
her headache and improved her spirits, and
the next morning she went to her work with
renewed vigor, fortified by the experience of
the first day.
Miss Myrover's second day was more satis¬
factory. She had some natural talent for
organization, though hitherto unaware of it,
and in the course of the day she got her
classes formed and lessons under way. In a
week or two she began to classify her pupils
in her own mind, as bright or stupid, mis¬
chievous or well behaved, lazy or industrious,
as the case might be, and to regulate her dis¬
cipline accordingly. That she had come of
a long line of ancestors who had exercised
authority and mastership was perhaps not
without its effect upon her character, and
enabled her more readily to maintain good


THE BOUQUET
275
order in the school. When she was fairly
broken in, she found the work rather to her
liking, and derived much pleasure from such
success as she achieved as a teacher.
It was natural that she should be more at¬
tracted to some of her pupils than to others.
Perhaps her favorite — or, rather, the one
she liked best, for she was too fair and just
for conscious favoritism — was Sophy Tucker.
Just the ground for the teacher's liking for
Sophy might not at first be apparent. The
girl was far from the whitest of Miss Myro-
ver's pupils; in fact, she was one of the darker
ones. She was not the brightest in intellect,
though she always tried to learn her lessons.
She was not the best dressed, for her mother
was a poor widow, who went out washing and
scrubbing for a living. Perhaps the real tie
between them was Sophy's intense devotion
to the teacher. It had manifested itself
almost from the first day of the school, in the
rapt look of admiration Miss Myrover always
saw on the little black face turned toward
her. In it there was nothing of envy, no¬
thing of regret; nothing but worship for the
beautiful white lady — she was not especially
handsome, but to Sophy her beauty was


276
THE BOUQUET
almost divine — who had come to teach her.
If Miss Myrover dropped a book, Sophy was
the first to spring and pick it up; if she
wished a chair moved, Sophy seemed to an¬
ticipate her wish ; and so of all the number¬
less little services that can be rendered in a
schoolroom.
Miss Myrover was fond of flowers, and
liked to have them about her. The children
soon learned of this taste of hers, and kept
the vases on her desk filled with blossoms
during their season. Sophy was perhaps the
most active in providing them. If she could
not get garden flowers, she would make ex¬
cursions to the woods in the early morning,
and bring in great dew-laden bunches of bay,
or jasmine, or some other fragrant forest
flower which she knew the teacher loved.
" When I die, Sophy," Miss Myrover said
to the child one day, " I want to be covered
with roses. And when they bury me, I'm
sure I shall rest better if my grave is banked
with flowers, and roses are planted at my
head and at my feet."
Miss Myrover was at first amused at Sophy's
devotion; but when she grew more accus¬
tomed itf) it, she found it rather to her liking.


280
THE BOUQUET
sition or irritation of any kind brought on
nervous paroxysms that made her miser¬
able, and made life a burden to the rest of
the household, so that Mary seldom crossed
her whims. She did not bring Sophy to the
house again, nor did Sophy again offer her
services as porter.
One day in spring Sophy brought her
teacher a bouquet of yellow roses.
"Deycome off'n my own bush, Miss Ma'y,"
she said proudly, " an' I did n* let nobody
e'se pull 'em, but saved 'em all fer you, 'cause
I know you likes roses so much. I'm gwine
bring 'em all ter you as long as dey las'."
" Thank you, Sophy," said the teacher;
" you are a very good girl."
For another year Mary Myrover taught the
colored school, and did excellent service. The
children made rapid progress under her tui¬
tion, and learned to love her well; for they
saw and appreciated, as well as children could,
her fidelity to a trust that she might have
slighted, as some others did, without much
fear of criticism. Toward the end of her
second year she sickened, and after a brief
illness died.
Old Mrs. Myrover was inconsolable* She


THE BOUQUET 285
colored people were admitted, if they cliose to
come, at ordinary services; and those who
wished to be present at the funeral supposed
that the usual custom would prevail. They
were therefore surprised, when they went to
the side entrance, by which colored people
gained access to the gallery stairs, to be met
by an usher who barred their passage.
" I'm sorry," he said, " but I have had
orders to admit no one until the friends of
the family have all been seated. If you wish
to wait until the white people have all gone
in, and there's any room left, you may be
able to get into the back part of the gallery.
Of course I can't tell yet whether there '11 be
any room or not."
Now the statement of the usher was a very
reasonable one; but, strange to say, none of
the colored people chose to remain except
Sophy. She still hoped to use her floral
offering for its destined end, in some way,
though she did not know just how. She
waited in the yard until the church was filled
with white people, and a number who could
not gain admittance were standing about the
doors. Then she went round to the side of
the church, and, depositing her bouquet care-


THE BOUQUET 287
uncertainty of life, and, to the believer, the
certain blessedness of eternity. He spoke
of Miss Myrover's kindly spirit, and, as an
illustration of her love and self-sacrifice for
others, referred to her labors as a teacher of
the poor ignorant negroes who had been placed
in their midst by an all-wise Providence, and
whom it was their duty to guide and direct
in the station in which God had put them.
Then the organ pealed, a prayer was said,
and the long cortege moved from the church
o o
to the cemetery, about half a mile away,
where the body was to be interred.
When the services were over, Sophy sprang
down from her perch, and, taking her flowers,
followed the procession. She did not walk
with the rest, but at a proper and respectful
distance from the last mourner. No one no¬
ticed the little black girl with the bunch of
yellow flowers, or thought o£ her as inter¬
ested in the funeral.
The cortege reached the cemetery and filed
slowly through the gate; but Sophy stood
outside, looking at a small sign in white
letters on a black background: —
" Notice. This cemetery is for white peo¬
ple only. Others please keep out."


288
THE BOUQUET
Sophy, thanks to Miss Myrover's pains¬
taking instruction, could read this sign very
distinctly. In fact, she had often read it
before. For Sophy was a child who loved
beauty, in a blind, groping sort of way, and
had sometimes stood by the fence of the
cemetery and looked through at the green
mounds and shaded walks and blooming
flowers within, and wished that she might
walk among them. She knew, too, that the
little sign on the gate, though so courteously
worded, was no mere formality; for she had
heard how a colored man, who had wandered
into the cemetery on a hot night and fallen
asleep on the flat top of a tomb, had been
arrested as a vagrant and fined five dollars,
which he had worked out on the streets, with
a ball-and-chain attachment, at twenty-five
cents a day. Since that time the cemetery
gate had been locked at night.
So Sophy stayed outside, and looked
through the fence. Her poor bouquet had
begun to droop by this time, and the yellow
ribbon had lost some of its freshness. Sophy
could see the rector standing by the grave,
the mourners gathered round; she could
faintly distinguish the solemn words with


"FOR WHITE PEOPLE ONLY. OTHERS PLEASE KEEP OUT"





290
THE BOUQUET
The dog wagged his tail intelligently, took
the bouquet carefully in his mouth, carried it
to his mistress's grave, and laid it among the
other flowers. The bunch of roses was so
small that from where she stood Sophy could
see only a dash of yellow against the white
background of the mass of flowers.
When Prince had performed his mission
he turned his eyes toward Sophy inquiringly,
and when she gave him a nod of approval lay
down and resumed his watch by the grave¬
side. Sophy looked at him a moment with a
feeling very much like envy, and then turned
and moved slowly away.


294 THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"You kin go ter dinner, Tom/' said the
blacksmith. " An' stop at de gate w'en yer
go by my house, and tell Nancy I '11 be dere
in 'bout twenty minutes. I got ter finish dis
yer plough p'int fus'."
The young man walked away. One would
have supposed, from the rapidity with which
he walked, that he was very hungry. A
quarter of an hour later the blacksmith
dropped his hammer, pulled off his leather
apron, shut the front door of the shop, and
went home to dinner. He came into the
house out of the fervent heat, and, throwing
olf his straw hat, wiped his brow vigorously
with a red cotton handkerchief.
" Dem collards smells good," he said,
sniffing the odor that came in through the
kitchen door, as his good-looking yellow wife
opened it to enter the room where he was.
" I've got a monst'us good appetite ter-day.
I feels good, too. I paid Majah Eansom de
intrus' on de mortgage dis mawnin' an' a
hund'ed dollahs besides, an' I spec's ter hab
de balance ready by de fust of nex' Jiniwary;
an' den we won't owe nobody a cent. I tell
yer dere ain' nothin' like propputy ter make
a pusson feel like a man. But w'at's de


296 THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE
" No," answered his wife, " dey've gone
ter de spring."
The spring was on the opposite side of the
garden from that on which the snake was
said to have been seen, so the blacksmith sat
down and fanned himself with a palm-leaf
fan until the dinner was served.
u Yer ain't quite on time ter-day, Nancy,"
he said, glancing up at the clock on the
mantel, after the edge of his appetite had
been taken off. " Got ter make time ef yer
wanter make money. Did n't Tom tell yer
I'd be heah in twenty minutes ? "
" No," she said; " I seen him goin' pas';
he did n' say nothin'."
661 dunno w'at's de matter wid dat boy,"
mused the blacksmith over his apple dump¬
ling. " He's gittin' mighty keerless heah
lately; mus' hab sump'n' on 'is min', — some
gal, I reckon."
The children had come in while he was
speaking, — a slender, shapely boy, yellow like
his mother, a girl several years younger, dark
like her father : both bright-looking children
and neatly dressed.
" I seen cousin Tom down by de spring,"
said the little girl, as she lifted off the pail


THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE 297
of water that had been balanced on her head.
" He come out er de woods jest ez we wuz
fillin' our buckets."
" Yas," insisted the blacksmith, " he's got
some gal on his min'."
II
The case of the State of North Carolina vs.
Ben Davis was called. The accused was led
into court, and took his seat in the prisoner's
dock.
" Prisoner at the bar, stand up."
The prisoner, pale and anxious, stood up.
The clerk read the indictment, in which it was
charged that the defendant by force and arms
had entered the barn of one G. W. Thornton,
and feloniously taken therefrom one whip, of
the value of fifteen dollars.
" Are you guilty or not guilty ? " asked the
judge.
" Not guilty, yo' Honah; not guilty, Jedge.
I never tuck de whip."
The State's attorney opened the case. He
was young and zealous. Recently elected to
the office, this was his first batch of cases, and
he was anxious to make as good a record as


THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE 299
"We object, may it please your Honor,"
said the defendant's attorney. " The pro¬
secutor should defer his argument until the
testimony is in."
"Confine yourself to the facts, Major,"
said the court mildly.
The prisoner sat with half-open mouth,
overwhelmed by this flood of eloquence. He
had never heard of Tom Paine or Voltaire.
He had no conception of what a nihilist or
an anarchist might be, and could not have
told the difference between a propaganda and
a potato.
"We expect to show, may it please the
court, that the prisoner had been employed
by Colonel Thornton to shoe a horse; that
the horse was taken to the prisoner's black¬
smith shop by a servant of Colonel Thorn¬
ton's ; that, this servant expressing a desire
to go somewhere on an errand before the
horse had been shod, the prisoner volun¬
teered to return the horse to Colonel Thorn¬
ton's stable ; that he did so, and the following
morning the whip in question was missing;
that, from circumstances, suspicion naturally
fell upon the prisoner, and a search was made
of his shop, where the whip was found se-


THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE 801
smith shop in the course of which the pris¬
oner had expressed a desire to possess a sim¬
ilar whip. The cross-examination was brief,
and no attempt was made to shake the Colo¬
nel's testimony.
The next witness was the constable who had
gone with a warrant to search Ben's shop.
He testified to the circumstances under which
the whip was found.
" He wuz brazen as a mule at fust, an'
wanted ter git mad about it. But when we
begun ter turn over that pile er truck in the
cawner, he kinder begun ter trimble; when
the whip-handle stuck out, his eyes commenced
ter grow big, an' when we hauled the whip
out he turned pale ez ashes, an' begun to
swear he did n' take the whip an' did n' know
how it got thar."
" You may cross-examine," said the prose¬
cuting attorney triumphantly.
The prisoner felt the weight of the testi¬
mony, and glanced furtively at the jury, and
then appealingly at his lawyer.
" You say that Ben denied that he had
stolen the whip," said the prisoner's attorney,
on cross-examination. " Did it not occur to
you that what you took for brazen impudence


THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE 303
were no witnesses to the facts, but several
were called to testify to Ben's good character.
The colored witnesses made him out pos¬
sessed of all the virtues. One or two white
men testified that they had never known any¬
thing against his reputation for honesty.
The defendant rested his case, and the
State called its witnesses in rebuttal. They
were entirely on the point of character. One
testified that he had heard the prisoner say
that, if the negroes had their rights, they
would own at least half the property. An¬
other testified that he had heard the defend¬
ant say that the negroes spent too much
money on churches, and that they cared a
good deal more for God than God had ever
seemed to care for them.
Ben Davis listened to this testimony with
half-open mouth and staring eyes. Now and
then he would lean forward and speak per¬
haps a word, when his attorney would shake
a warning finger at him, and he would fall
back helplessly, as if abandoning himself to
fate ; but for a moment only, when he would
resume his puzzled look.
The arguments followed. The prosecuting
attorney briefly summed up the evidence, and


THE WEB OF CIECUMSTANCE 305
There was a moment of relaxation in the
court room. The lawyers fell into conversa¬
tion across the table. The judge beckoned to
Colonel Thornton, who stepped forward, and
they conversed together a few moments. The
prisoner was all eyes and ears in this moment
of waiting, and from an involuntary gesture
on the part of the judge he divined that they
were speaking of him. It is a pity he could
not hear what was said.
"How do you feel about the case, Colonel?"
asked the judge.
"Let him off easy," replied Colonel Thorn¬
ton. " He's the best blacksmith in the
county."
The business of the court seemed to have
halted by tacit consent, in anticipation of a
quick verdict. The suspense did not last
long. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed
when there was a rap on the door, the officer
opened it, and the jury came out.
The prisoner, his soul in his eyes, sought
their faces, but met no reassuring glance;
they were all looking away from him.
" Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed
upon a verdict ? "
"We have," responded the foreman. The


THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE 307
Some of the spectators wondered why there
should be so much, ado about convicting; a
negro of stealing a buggy-whip. They had
forgotten their own interest of the moment
before. They did not realize out of what
trifles grow the tragedies of life.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon, the
hour for adjournment, when the verdict was
returned. The judge nodded to the bailiff.
" Oyez, oyez! this court is now adjourned
until ten o'clock to-morrow morning," cried
the bailiff in a singsong voice. The judge
left the bench, the jury filed out of the box,
and a buzz of conversation filled the court
room.
" Brace up, Ben, brace up, my boy," said
the defendant's lawyer, half apologetically.
" I did what I could for you, but you can
never tell what a jury will do. You won't be
sentenced till to-morrow morning. In the
meantime I '11 speak to the judge and try to
get him to be easy with you. He may let
you off with a light fine."
The negro pulled himself together, and by
an effort listened.
" Thanky, Majah," was all he said. He
seemed to be thinking of something far away.


308 THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE
He barely spoke to his wife when she fran¬
tically threw herself on him, and clung to his
neck, as he passed through the side room on
his way to jail. He kissed his children me¬
chanically, and did not reply to the soothing
remarks made by the jailer.
Ill
There was a good deal of excitement in
town the next morning. Two white men
stood by the post office talking.
" Did yer hear the news ? "
" No, what wuz it ? "
" Ben Davis tried ter break jail las' night."
" You don't say so ! What a fool! He
ain't be'n sentenced yit."
" Well, now," said the other, " I've knowed
Ben a long time, an' he wuz a right good
nigger. I kinder found it hard ter b'lieve he
did steal that whip. But what's a man's feel-
in's ag'in* the proof ? "
They spoke on awhile, using the past tense
as if they were speaking of a dead man.
"Ef I know Jedge Hart, Ben '11 wish he
had slep' las' night, 'stidder tryin' ter break
out'n jail."


310 THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE
yet before you. I regret that you should
have been led into evil courses by the lust for
speculation, so dangerous in its tendencies, so
fruitful of crime and misery. I am led to be¬
lieve that you are sincerely penitent, and that,
after such punishment as the law cannot re¬
mit without bringing itself into contempt,
you will see the error of your ways and follow
the strict path of rectitude. Your fault has
entailed distress not only upon yourself, but
upon your relatives, people of good name and
good family, who suffer as keenly from your
disgrace as you yourself. Partly out of con¬
sideration for their feelings, and partly be¬
cause I feel that, under the circumstances,
the law will be satisfied by the penalty I shall
inflict, I sentence you to imprisonment in
the county jail for six months, and a fine
of one hundred dollars and the costs of this
action."
" The jedge talks well, don't he ? " whis¬
pered one spectator to another.
" Yes, and kinder likes ter hear hisse'f
talk," answered the other.
" Ben Davis, stand up," ordered the judge.
He might have said " Ben Davis, wake up,"
for the jailer had to touch the prisoner on the


THE WEB OF CIBCUMSTANCE 315
fearful face as the man stepped away from
the window and rapped at the door.
"Is Mis' Davis home?" he asked of the
woman who opened the door.
" Mis' Davis don' live here. You er mis¬
took in de house."
" Whose house is dis? "
" It b'longs ter my husban', Mr. Smith, —
Primus Smith."
" 'Scuse me, but I knowed de house some
years ago w'en I wuz here oncet on a visit,
an' it b'longed ter a man name' Ben Davis."
" Ben Davis — Ben Davis ? — oh yes, I
'member now. Dat wuz de gen'man w'at
wuz sent ter de penitenchy fer sump'n er
nuther, — sheep-stealin', I b'lieve. Primus,"
she called, " w'at wuz Ben Davis, w'at useter
own dis yer house, sent ter de penitenchy
fer?"
" Hoss-stealin'," came back the reply in
sleepy accents, from the man seated by the
fireplace.
The traveler went on to the next house.
A neat-looking yellow woman came to the
door when he rattled the gate, and stood
looking suspiciously at him.
" Wat you want ?'' she asked.


316 THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE
" Please, ma'am, will you tell me whether
a man name' Ben Davis useter live in dis
neighborhood ? "
" Useter live in de nex' house; wuz sent
ter de penitenchy fer killin' a man."
" Kin yer tell me w'at went wid Mis'
Davis?"
" Umph ! I's a 'spectable 'oman, I is, en
don' mix wid dem kind er people. She wuz 'n'
no better 'n her husban'. She tuk up wid a
man dat useter wuk fer Ben, an' dey 're livin'
down by de ole wagon-ya'd, where no 'spect¬
able 'oman ever puts her foot."
" An' de chillen ? "
" De gal's dead. Wuz 'n' no better 'n she
oughter be'n. She fell in de crick an' got
drown'; some folks say she wuz 'n' sober
w'en it happen'. De boy tuck atter his
pappy. He wuz 'rested las' week fer shootin'
a w'ite man, an' wuz lynch' de same night.
Dey wa'n't none of 'em no 'count after deir
pappy went ter de penitenchy."
" What went wid de proputty ? "
" Hit wuz sol' fer de mortgage, er de taxes,
er de lawyer, er sump'n, — I don' know w'at.
A w'ite man got it."
The man with the bundle went on until he


320 THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE
that he was in the convict camp, and, by an
easy transition, that he was in hell, consumed
with hunger, burning with thirst. Suddenly
the grinning devil who stood over him with
a barbed whip faded away, and a little white
angel came and handed him a drink of water.
As he raised it to his lips the glass slipped,
and he struggled back to consciousness.
" Poo' man ! Poo' man sick, an' sleepy.
Dolly b'ing f'owers to cover poo' man up.
Poo' man mus' be hungry. Wen Dolly get
him covered up, she go b'ing poo' man some
cake."
A sweet little child, as beautiful as a cherub
escaped from Paradise, was standing over him.
At first he scarcely comprehended the words
the baby babbled out. But as they became
clear to him, a novel feeling crept slowly over
his heart. It had been so long since he had
heard anything but curses and stern words of
command, or the ribald songs of obscene mer¬
riment, that the clear tones of this voice
from heaven cooled his calloused heart as the
water of the brook had soothed his blistered
feet. It was so strange, so unwonted a thing,
that he lay there with half-closed eyes while
the child brought leaves and flowers and laid


THE WEB OF CIRCUMSTANCE 323
other golden age, when all men will dwell to¬
gether in love and harmony, and when peace
and righteousness shall prevail for a thousand
years. God speed the day, and let not the
shining thread of hope become so enmeshed
in the web of circumstance that we lose sight
of it; but give us here and there, and now
and then, some little foretaste of this golden
age, that we may the more patiently and hope¬
fully await its coming!