Part 16 (1/2)

”Well, it's a mighty fur cry for health,” said Mrs. Haley emphatically.

”I've seen some monst'ous sick people around here; and if anybody'll look at them Tackies out on the Ridge yonder, and then tell me there's any health in this neighborhood, then I'll give up. I don't know how in the wide world we'll fix up for 'em. That everlastin' n.i.g.g.e.r went and made too much fire in the stove, and tee-totally ruint my light-bread; I could 'a' cried, I was so mad; and then on top er that the whole dinin'-room is tore up from top to bottom.”

”Well,” said the major, ”we'll try and make 'em comfortable, and if they ain't comfortable it won't be our fault. Jest you whirl in, and put on some of your Greene County style, Maria. That'll fetch 'em.”

”It may fetch 'em, but it won't feed 'em,” said the practical Maria.

The result was, that when Helen Eustis and her aunt became the guests of this poor little country tavern, they were not only agreeably disappointed as to their surroundings, but they were better pleased than they would have been at one of the most pretentious caravansaries. Hotel luxury is comfortable enough to those who make it a point to appreciate what they pay for; but the appointments of luxury can neither impart, nor compensate for the lack of, the atmosphere that mysteriously conveys some impression or reminiscence of home. In the case of Helen and her aunt, this impression was conveyed and confirmed by a quilt of curious pattern on one of the beds in their rooms.

”My dear,” said Miss Tewksbury, after making a critical examination, ”your grandmother had just such a quilt as this. Yes, she had two. I remember the first one was quite a bone of contention between your mother and me, and so your grandmother made two. I declare,” Miss Tewksbury continued, with a sigh, ”it quite carries me back to old times.”

”It is well made,” said Helen, giving the st.i.tches a critical examination, ”and the colors are perfectly matched. Really, this is something to think about, for it fits none of our theories. Perhaps, Aunt Harriet, we have accidentally discovered some of our long-lost relatives. It would be nice and original to subst.i.tute a beautiful quilt for the ordinary strawberry-mark.”

”Well, the sight of it is comforting, anyhow,” said Miss Tewksbury, responding to the half-serious humor of her niece by pressing her thin lips together, and tossing her gray ringlets.

As she spoke, a negro boy, apparently about ten years old, stalked unceremoniously into the room, balancing a large stone pitcher on his head. His hands were tucked beneath his white ap.r.o.n, and the pitcher seemed to be in imminent danger of falling; but he smiled and showed his white teeth.

”I come fer ter fetch dish yer pitcher er water, ma'm. Miss 'Ria say she speck you lak fer have 'im right fresh from de well.”

”Aren't you afraid you'll drop it?” said Miss Eustis.

”Lor', no'm!” exclaimed the boy, emphasizing his words by increasing his grin. ”I been ca'um dis away sence I ain't no bigger dan my li'l' buddy.

Miss 'Ria, she say dat w'at make I so bow-legged.”

”What is your name?” inquired Miss Tewksbury, with some degree of solemnity, as the boy deposited the pitcher on the wash-stand.

”Mammy she say I un name Willum, but Mars Maje en de turrer folks dey des calls me Bill. I run'd off en sot in de school-'ouse all day one day, but dat mus' 'a' been a mighty bad day, kaze I ain't never year um say wherrer I wuz name Willum, er wherrer I wuz des name Bill. Miss 'Ria, she say dat 'taint make no diffunce w'at folks' name is, long ez dey come w'en dey year turred folks holl'in' at um.”

”Don't you go to school, child?” Miss Tewksbury inquired, with dignified sympathy.

”I start in once,” said William, laughing, ”but mos' time I git dar de n.i.g.g.e.r man w'at do de teachin' tuck'n s.n.a.t.c.h de book out'n my han' en say I got 'im upper-side down. I tole 'im dat de onliest way w'at I kin git my lesson, en den dat n.i.g.g.e.r man tuck'n lam me side de head. Den atter school bin turn out, I is hide myse'f side de road, en w'en dat n.i.g.g.e.r man come 'long, I up wid a rock en I fetched 'im a clip dat mighty nigh double 'im up. You ain't never is year no n.i.g.g.e.r man holler lak dat n.i.g.g.e.r man. He run't en tole Mars Peyt dat de Kukluckers wuz atter 'im. Mars Peyt he try ter quiet 'em, but dat n.i.g.g.e.r man done gone!”

”Don't you think you did wrong to hit him?” Miss Tewksbury asked.

”Dat w'at Miss 'Ria say. She say I oughter be shame er myse'f by good rights; but w'at dat n.i.g.g.e.r man wanter come hurtin' my feelin' fer w'en I settin' dar studyin' my lesson des hard ez I kin, right spank out'n de book? en spozen she wuz upper-side down, wa'n't de lesson in dar all de time, kaze how she gwine spill out?”

William was very serious--indeed, he was indignant--when he closed his argument. He turned to go out, but paused at the door, and said:

”Miss 'Ria say supper be ready 'mos' 'fo' you kin turn 'roun', but she say ef you too tired out she'll have it sont up.” William paused, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, smacked his mouth, and added: ”I gwine fetch in de batter-cakes myse'f.”

Miss Tewksbury felt in her soul that she ought to be horrified at this recital; but she was grateful that she was not amused.

”Aunt Harriet,” cried Helen, when William had disappeared, ”this is better than the seash.o.r.e. I am stronger already. My only regret is that Henry P. Ba.s.sett, the novelist, is not here. The last time I saw him, he was moping and complaining that his occupation was almost gone, because he had exhausted all the types--that's what he calls them. He declared he would be compelled to take his old characters, and give them a new outfit of emotions. Oh, if he were only here!”

”I hope you feel that you are, in some sense, responsible for all this, Helen,” said Miss Tewksbury solemnly.

”Do you mean the journey, Aunt Harriet, or the little negro?”

”My dear child, don't pretend to misunderstand me. I can not help feeling that if we had done and were doing our whole duty, this--this poor negro-- Ah, well! it is useless to speak of it. We are on missionary ground, but our hands are tied. Oh, I wish Elizabeth Mappis were here! She would teach us our duty.”

”She wouldn't teach me mine, Aunt Harriet,” said Helen seriously. ”I wouldn't give one grain of your common sense for all that Elizabeth Mappis has written and spoken. What have her wild theories to do with these people? She acts like a man in disguise. When I see her striding about, delivering her harangues, I always imagine she is wearing a pair of cowhide boots as a sort of stimulus to her masculinity. Ugh! I'm glad she isn't here.”

Ordinarily, Miss Tewksbury would have defended Mrs. Elizabeth Mappis; but she remembered that a defense of that remarkable woman--as remarkable for her intellect as for her courage--was unnecessary at all times, and, in this instance, absolutely uncalled for. Moreover, the clangor of the supper-bell, which rang out at that moment, would have effectually drowned out whatever Miss Tewksbury might have chosen to say in behalf of Mrs. Mappis.