Part 30 (1/2)
Reader, this boy is our hero; a real hero, too, who actually lived and suffered and toiled and triumphed in this land!
”Out of the depths” he came indeed! Out of the depths of poverty, sorrow, and degradation he rose, by G.o.d's blessing on his aspirations, to the very zenith of fame, honor, and glory!
He made his name, the only name he was legally ent.i.tled to bear--his poor wronged mother's maiden-name--ill.u.s.trious in the annals of our nation!
But this is to antic.i.p.ate.
No vision of future glory, however, arose before the poor weaver's imagination as she sat in that old hut holding the wee boy on her lap, and for his sake as well as for her own begrudging him every hour of the few days she supposed he had to live upon this earth. Yes! Hannah would have felt relieved and satisfied if that child had been by his mother's side in the coffin rather than been left on her lap.
Only think of that, my readers; think of the utter, utter dest.i.tution of a poor little sickly, helpless infant whose only relative would have been glad to see him dead! Our Ishmael had neither father, mother, name, nor place in the world. He had no legal right to be in it at all; no legal right to the air he breathed, or to the suns.h.i.+ne that warmed him into life; no right to love, or pity, or care; he had nothing--nothing but the eye of the Almighty Father regarding him. But Hannah Worth was a conscientious woman, and even while wis.h.i.+ng the poor boy's death she did everything in her power to keep him alive, hoping all would be in vain.
Hannah, as you know, was very, very poor. And with this child upon her hands she expected to be much poorer. She was a weaver of domestic carpets and counterpanes and of those coa.r.s.e cotton and woolen cloths of which the common clothing of the plantation negroes are made, and the most of her work came from Brudenell Hall. She used to have to go and fetch the yarn, and then carry home the web. She had a piece of cloth now ready to take home to Mrs. Brudenell's housekeeper; but she abhorred the very idea of carrying it there, or of asking for more work.
Nora had been ignominiously turned from the house, cruelly driven out into the midnight storm; that had partly caused her death. And should she, her sister, degrade her womanhood by going again to that house to solicit work, or even to carry back what she had finished, to meet, perhaps, the same insults that had maddened Nora?
No, never; she would starve and see the child starve first. The web of cloth should stay there until Jim Morris should come along, when she would get him to take it to Brudenell Hall. And she would seek work from other planters' wives.
She had four dollars and a half in the house--the money, you know, that old Mrs. Jones, with all her hardness, had yet refused to take from the poor woman. And then Mrs. Brudenell owed her five and a half for the weaving of this web of cloth. In all she had ten dollars, eight of which she owed to the Professor of Odd Jobs for his services at Nora's funeral. The remaining two she hoped would supply her simple wants until she found work. And in the meantime she need not be idle; she would employ her time in cutting up some of poor Nora's clothes to make an outfit for the baby--for if the little object lived but a week it must be clothed--now it was only wrapped up in a piece of flannel.
While Hannah meditated upon these things the baby went to sleep on her lap, and she took it up and laid it in Nora's vacated place in her bed.
And soon after Hannah took her solitary cup of tea, and shut up the hut and retired to bed. She had not had a good night's rest since that fatal night of Nora's flight through the snow storm to Brudenell Hall, and her subsequent illness and death. Now, therefore, Hannah slept the sleep of utter mental and physical prostration.
The babe did not disturb her repose. Indeed, it was a very patient little sufferer, if such a term may be applied to so young a child. But it was strange that an infant so pale, thin, and sickly, deprived of its mother's nursing care besides, should have made so little plaint and given so little trouble. Perhaps in the lack of human pity he had the love of heavenly spirits, who watched over him, soothed his pains, and stilled his cries. We cannot tell how that may have been, but it is certain that Ishmael was an angel from his very birth.
The next day, as Hannah was standing at the table, busy in cutting out small garments, and the baby-boy was lying upon the bed equally busy in sucking his thumb, the door was pushed open and the Professor of Odd Jobs stood in the doorway, with a hand upon either post, and sadness on his usually good-humored and festive countenance.
”Ah, Jim, is that you? Come in, your money is all ready for you,” said Hannah on perceiving him.
It is not the poor who ”grind the faces of the poor.” Jim Morris would have scorned to have taken a dollar from Hannah Worth at this trying crisis of her life.
”Now, Miss Hannah,” he answered, as he came in at her bidding, ”please don't you say one word to me 'bout de filthy lucre, 'less you means to 'sult me an' hurt my feelin's. I don't 'quire of no money for doin' of a man's duty by a lone 'oman! Think Jim Morris is a man to 'pose upon a lone 'oman? Hopes not, indeed! No, Miss Hannah! I aint a wolf, nor likewise a bear! Our Heabenly Maker, he gib us our lives an' de earth an' all as is on it, for ourselves free! And what have we to render him in turn? Nothing! And what does he 'quire ob us? On'y lub him and lub each oder, like human beings and 'mortal souls made in his own image to live forever! and not to screw and 'press each oder, and devour an' prey on each oder like de wild beastesses dat peris.h.!.+ And I considers, Miss Hannah--”
And here, in fact, the professor, having secured a patient hearer, launched into an oration that, were I to report it word for word, would take up more room than we can spare him. He brought his discourse round in a circle, and ended where he had begun.
”And so, Miss Hannah, say no more to me 'bout de money, 'less you want to woun' my feelin's.”
”Well, I will not, Morris; but I feel so grateful to you that I would like to repay you in something better than mere words,” said Hannah.
”And so you shall, honey, so you shall, soon as eber I has de need and you has de power! But now don't you go and fall into de pop'lar error of misparagin' o' words. Words! why words is de most powerfullist engine of good or evil in dis worl'! Words is to idees what bodies is to souls!
Wid words you may save a human from dispair, or you may drive him to perdition! Wid words you may confer happiness or misery! Wid words a great captain may rally his discomforted troops, an' lead 'em on to wictory! wid words a great congressman may change the laws of de land!
Wid words a great lawyer may 'suade a jury to hang an innocent man, or to let a murderer go free. It's bery fas.h.i.+onable to misparage words, callin' of 'em 'mere words.' Mere words! mere fire! mere life! mere death! mere heaben! mere h.e.l.l! as soon as mere words! What are all the grand books in de worl' filled with? words! What is the one great Book called? What is the Bible called? De Word!” said the professor, spreading out his arms in triumph at this peroration.
Hannah gazed in very sincere admiration upon this orator, and when he had finished, said:
”Oh, Morris, what a pity you had not been a white man, and been brought up at a learned profession!”
”Now aint it, though, Miss Hannah?” said Morris.
”You would have made such a splendid lawyer or parson!” continued the simple woman, in all sincerity.