Moriah's Mourning and Other Half-Hour Sketches Part 5

"An' dat's huccome I come to say she got sev'al presents las' night."

And he took another puff of his cigarette.

NEAREST OF KIN

(ON THE PLANTATION)

When Tamar the laundress was married to the coachman Pompey, there was a big time on the plantation. Tamar wore white tarlatan and an orange wreath--although it was her severalth marriage--and she had six bridemaids and a train-bearer. The last, a slim little black girl of about ten years, was dressed somewhat after the fashion of the ballet, in green tarlatan with spangles, and her slender legs were carefully wrapped with gilt paper that glistened through the clocked stockings with fine effect. Otherwise the "clockings" in the black stockinet would have lost their value.

Pompey, as groom, was resplendent in the full glare of a white duck suit, and he wore a rosette of satin ribbon--"so's to 'stinguish him out f'om de groomsmen," each of whom was likewise "ducked" out in immaculate linen; and if there were some suggestive misfits among them, there were ample laundry compensations in the way of starch and polish--a proud achievement of the bride.

There was a good deal of marching up and down the aisles of the church by the entire party before the ceremony, which was, altogether, really very effective. Pompey was as black as his bride, and his face was as carefully oiled and polished for the occasion as hers, which is saying a good deal, both as to color and shine.

After the ceremony everybody repaired, for a supper and dance, to the sugar-house, where there was a bride's cake, with all the usual accessories, such as the ring and thimble, to be cut for. And of course, before the end of the evening, there was the usual distribution of bits of cake to be "dreamed on." This last, indeed, was so important that nearly every girl on the plantation slept in a neighbor's cabin that night, so as to command the full potency of the charm by dreaming her great dream in a strange bed. The whole wedding was, in fact, so disturbing a social function that everything on the place was more or less disarranged by it--even the breakfast hour at the great house, which was fully three-quarters of an hour late next morning. But that was no great matter, as all the family had been witnesses to the wedding and were somewhat sleepy in consequence--and the "rising-bell" was a movable form anyway.

Perhaps if the nuptials had been less festive the demeanor of the bride immediately afterwards would not have been so conspicuous. As it was, however, when she appeared at the wash-house, ready for duty, on the second morning following, dressed in heavy mourning, and wearing, moreover, a pseudo-sorrowful expression on her every-otherwise shining face, they wondered, and there was some nudging and whispering among the negroes. Some hastily concluded that the marriage had been rashly repudiated as a failure; but when presently the groom strolled into the yard, smiling broadly, and when he proceeded with many a flourish to devotedly fill her wash-tubs from the well for his bride, they saw that there must be some other explanation. The importance of the central figure in so recent a pageant still surrounded her with somewhat of a glamour in the eyes of her companions, setting her apart, so that they were slow to ask her any questions.

Later in the day, though, when her mistress, happening to pa.s.s through the yard, saw the black-gowned figure bending low over the tubs, she hastened to the wash-shed.

"Why, Tamar," she exclaimed, "what on earth--"

At this Tamar raised her face and smiled faintly. Then, glancing down at her dress to indicate that she understood, she drawled, demurely:

"Ain't nothin' de matter, missy. I jes mo'nin' for Sister Sophy-Sophia."

"Sophy-Sophia! You don't mean--"

"Yas, 'm, I does. I means Pompey's las' wife, Sis' Sophy-Sophia. She didn't have no kinfolks to go in mo'nin' for her, an' time Pompey an' me got ingaged he made known his wushes to me, an' I promised him I'd put on mo'nin' for her soon as I married into de family. Co'se I couldn't do it 'fo' I was kin to her."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'I PROMISED HIM I'D PUT ON MO'NIN' FOR HER, SOON AS I MARRIED INTO DE FAMILY.'"]

"Kin to her!" the mistress laughed. "Why, Tamar, what relation on earth are you to Pompey's former wife, I'd like to know?"

The black woman dropped the garment she was wringing and thought a moment.

"Well, missy," she said, presently, "looks to me like I'm a speritu'l foster-sister to her, ef I ain't no mo'--an' I done inherited all her rights an' privileges, so Pompey say--an' ef I 'ain't got a right to mo'n for her, _who is_? Dey tell me a 'oman is got a right to go in mo'nin' for her husband's kin anyway; but of co'se, come down to it, she warn't no blood-kin to Pompey, nohow. Howsomever, eve'ybody knows a widder or a widderer is int.i.tled to wear _all de mo'nin' dey is_; an'

his wife, why, she's int.i.tled to a equal sheer in it, if she choose to seize her rights. I'd 'a' put it on befo' de weddin', 'cep'n I didn't have no t.i.tle to it, an' it wouldn't 'a' been no comfort to her noways.

Set down, missy." She began wiping off one of her wash-benches with her ap.r.o.n as she spoke. "Set down, mistus, an' lemme talk to you."

The situation was interesting, and the mistress sat down.

"You see, missy"--she had come nearer now, and a.s.sumed a confidential tone--"you see, Sister Sophy-Sophia she 'ain't nuver found rest yit, an'

dat frets Pompey. Hit troubles 'im in de sperit--an' I promised him to try to pacify her."

"Pacify her! Why, Tamar! How can you pacify a person who is dead? And how do you know that her spirit isn't at rest?"

The black woman turned and looked behind her to make sure that no one should overhear. Then, lowering her voice, she whispered:

"Her grave 'ain't nuver settled yit, mistus. She been buried ever sence befo' Christmus, an' hit ain't evened down yit. An' dat's a sh.o.r.e sign of a onrestless sperit--yas, 'm."

Her face had grown suddenly anxious as she spoke. And presently she added:

"Of co'se, when a grave settles _too_ quick, dat's a sign dey'll soon be another death, an' n.o.body don't crave to see a grave sink too sudden. But it'll ease down gradual--ef de dead sleeps easy--yas, 'm.

No, Sister Sophy-Sophia she 'ain't took no comfort in her grave yit.

An' Pompey, righteously speakin', ought to pacified her befo' he set out to marry ag'in. Heap o' 'omans would 'a' been afeerd to marry a man wid a unsunk grave on his hands--'feerd she'd ha'nt her. But I done had 'spe'unce, an' I'm mo' 'feerd o' live ha'nts 'n I is o' dead ones. I know Sis' Sophy-Sophia she's _layin' dar_--an' she _can't git out_. You know, she died o' de exclammatory rheumatism, an' some say hit was a jedgmint f'om heaven. You know, Sis' Sophy-Sophia she was a devil for fun. She would have her joke. An' some say Gord A'mighty punished her an' turned eve'y bone in 'er body into funny-bones, jes to show her dat eve'y funny thing ain't to be laughed at. An' ef you ever got a sudden whack on de funny-bone in yo' elbow, missy, you know how she suffered when she was teched. An' she ain't at rest yit. She done proved dat. Of co'se, ef she died wid some'h'n' on 'er mind, we can't do nothin' for her; but ef she jes need soothin', I'll git her quieted down."

She leaned forward and resumed her washing--that is to say, she raised a garment from the suds and looked at it, turned it over idly in her hands several times, and dipped it languidly.

Her visitor watched her in amused silence for a while.

"And how are you going to soothe her, Tamar?" she asked, presently.

"Tell me all about it."

At this the woman began wiping her hands upon her ap.r.o.n, and dropping into a seat between two of the tubs and resting her arms upon their rims, she faced her mistress.

"Of co'se, honey," she began, "de fust thing is to _wear mo'nin_'--an'

dat ain't no special trouble to me--I got consider'ble black frocks lef' over from my widderhoods. An' in addition to dat, I gwine carry it around in my countenance--an' _ef she sees it_--an' I b'lieve de dead does see--_maybe it'll ease her mind_. Of co'se, when a pusson ain't able to sorrer in her heart, dey 'bleeged to wear it in dey face--"

There was something in her voice as she said these last words--an indescribable note that seemed to express detachment from all feeling in the matter--that made her listener turn and look narrowly into her face.

Still, she was not in the least prepared for the hearty laughter that greeted her question.

"And don't you mourn for her in your heart, Tamar?" She eyed her narrowly as she put the question.

The black woman did not even attempt an answer. Nor did she apparently even try to control her mirth. But, after a while, when she had laughed until she was tired, she suddenly rose to her feet, and as she gathered up a handful of wet garments, and began rubbing them on the wash-board, she exclaimed, still chuckling:

"Lemme git to my washin', honey, befo' I disgrace my mo'nin'."

In a little while, however, she grew serious again, and although she still seemed to have trouble with her shoulders, that insisted upon expressing merriment, she said:

"I 'clare, I talks like a plumb hycoprite, missy--I sho' does. But I ain't. No, 'm, I ain't. Of co'se I grieves for Sis' Sophy-Sophia. I'd grieve for any po' human dat can't find rest in 'er grave--an' I'm gwine to consolate her, good as I kin. Soon as de dark o' de moon comes, I gwine out an' set on her grave an' moan, an' ef dat don't ease her, maybe when her funer'l is preached she'll be comforted."

"And hasn't she had her funeral sermon yet, Tamar?"

"Oh no, 'm. 'Tain't time, hardly, yit. We mos' gin'ly waits two or three years after de bury-in' befo' we has members' funer'ls preached.

An' we don't nuver, sca'cely, have 'em under a year. You see, dey's a lot o' smarty folks dat 'ain't got nothin' better to do 'n to bring up things ag'in dead folks's cha'acter, so we waits tell dey been restin'

in de groun' a year or so. Den a preacher he can expec' to preach dey funer'ls in peace. De fac' is, some o' our mos' piousest elders an'

deacons is had so many widders show up at dey funer'ls dat de chu'ches is most of 'em pa.s.sed a law dat dey compelled to wait a year or so an'

give all dese heah p'omiscu'us widders time to marry off--an' save scandalizement. An' Pompey an' Sophy-Sophia dey didn't have no mo'n a broomstick weddin' nohow--but of co'se _dey did have de broomstick. I'm a witness to dat, 'caze dey borried my broom--yas, 'm._ Ricollec', I had one o' dese heah green-handle sto'e brooms, an' Pompey he come over to my cabin one mornin' an' he say, 'Sis' Tamar,' he say, 'would you mind loandin' Sis' Sophy-Sophia dat green-handle straw broom dat you sweeps out de chu'ch-house wid?' You 'member, I was married to Wash Williams dat time--Wash Williams wha' live down heah at de cross-roads now. He's married to Yaller Silvy now. You know dat red-head freckled-face yaller gal dat use to sew for Mis' Ann Powers--always wear a sailor hat--wid a waist on her no thicker'n my wris'--an' a hitch in her walk eve'y time she pa.s.s a man? Dat's de gal. She stole Wash f'om me--an' she's welcome to 'im. Any 'oman is welcome to any man she kin git f'om me. Dat's my principle. But dese heah yaller freckle n.i.g.g.e.rs 'ain't got no principle _to_ 'em. I done heerd dat all my life--an' Silvy she done proved it. Time Wash an' me was married he was a man in good chu'ch standin'--a reg'lar ordained s.e.xton, at six dollars a month--an' I done de sweepin' for him. Dat's huccome I happened to have dat green-handle sto'e broom. Dat's all I ever did git out o' his wages. Any day you'd pa.s.s Rose-o'-Sharon Chu'ch dem days you could see him settin' up on de steps, like a gent'eman, an' I sho' did take pride in him. An' now, dey tell me, Silvy she got him down to shirt-sleeves--splittin' rails, wid his breeches gallused up wid twine, while she sets in de cabin do' wid a pink caliker Mother Hubbard wrapper on fannin' 'erse'f. An' on Sat.u.r.days, when he draw his pay, you'll mos' gin'ally see 'em standin' together at de hat an' ribbon show-case in de sto'e--he grinnin' for all he's worth. An' my belief is he grins des to hide his mizry."

"You certainly were very good to do his sweeping for him." Tamar's graphic picture of a rather strained situation was so humorous that it was hard to take calmly. But her mistress tried to disguise her amus.e.m.e.nt so far as possible. To her surprise, the question seemed to restore the black woman to a fresh sense of her dignity in the situation.

"Cert'ny I done it," she exclaimed, dramatically. "Cert'ny. You reckon I'd live in de house wid a man dat 'd handle a broom? No, ma'am. Nex'

thing I'd look for him to sew. No, ma'am. But I started a-tellin' you huccome I come to know dat Pompey an' Sis' Sophy-Sophia was legally married wid a broom. One day he come over to my cabin, jes like I commenced tellin' you, an' he s'lute me wid, 'Good-mornin', Sis' Tamar; I come over to see ef you won't please, ma'am, loand Sister Sophy-Sophia Sanders dat straw broom wha' you sweeps out de chu'ch-house wid, please, ma'am?' An' I ricollec's de answer I made him. I laughed, an' I say, 'Well, Pompey,' I say, 'I don't know about loandin' out a chu'ch broom to a sinner like you.' An' at dat he giggle, 'Well, we wants it to play preacher--an' dat seems like a mighty suitable job for a chu'ch broom.' An' of co'se wid dat I pa.s.sed over de broom, wid my best wushes to de bride; an' when he fetched it back, I ricollec', he fetched me a piece o' de weddin'-cake--but it warn't no mo'n common one-two-three-fo'-cup-cake wid about seventeen onfriendly reesons stirred into it wid brown sugar. I 'clare, when I looks back, I sho'

is ashamed to know dat dey was ever sech a po' weddin'-cake in my family--I sho' is. Now you know, missy, of co'se, dese heah broom--weddin's dey ain't writ down in nuther co't-house nur chu'ch books--an' so ef any o' dese heah smarty meddlers was to try to bring up ole sco'es an' say dat Sister Sophy-Sophia wasn't legally married, dey wouldn't be no witnesses _but me an' de broom_, an' I'd have to witness _for it_, an'--an' _I_ wouldn't be no legal witness."