Ole Mammy's Torment Part 7

"Here comes Doctor Leonard," he said, nodding towards a rapidly approaching horseman. "Howdy, Doc," he called, as the man drew rein, and felt in his pocket for some change to pay his toll. "What's your hurry?"

"I've a call over to Elk Ridge," he answered, handing him the money and quickly starting on. Then he pulled his horse up with a sudden jerk.

"Here, Chadwick," he called, pitching the heavy overcoat he carried on his arm in the direction of the porch, "I wish you'd keep this for me until I get back. I'll be along this way before dark, and it's so much warmer than I thought it would be that such a heavy coat is a nuisance."

"All right," responded the toll-keeper. "Here! John Jay," he ordered, as the doctor disappeared around the bend in the road, "pick up the gentleman's coat and hang it on a chair inside the door there." Then he stuck his hands in his pockets, and whistling to his dog, walked off across the fields.

George turned to the child again. "John Jay," he said, "do you know that I'm going away soon?" Without waiting for an answer, he hurried on, lest another spell of coughing should interrupt him. "When I was a little fellow like you I heard so much about spirits and graveyards and haunted places that I had a horror of dying. I could not think of it without a shiver. But I've found out that death isn't a cold, ugly thing, my boy, and I want you to remember all your life every word I'm saying to you now. There is nothing to dread in simply going down this road and through the gate as Doctor Leonard did, and death is no more than that.

We just go down the turnpike till we get to the end of this life, and then there's the toll-gate. We lay down our old worn-out bodies, just as Doctor Leonard left his coat here, because he wouldn't need it farther up the road. Then the bar flies up and lets us through. It drops so quickly that no one ever sees what lies on the other side, but we know that there is neither sorrow nor crying beyond it, nor any more pain.

Listen, John Jay, this is what the Book tells us."

With fingers that trembled in his eagerness to make himself understood, he lifted the volume that had been lying in his lap. The words that he read vibrated through the child's heart in the way that the organ music used to roll. Never again in the years that followed could he hear them read without seeing all the golden glory of that radiant October day, and hearing the mournful notes of some distant dove, falling at intervals through the Sabbath-like stillness.

He had a queer conception of what lies beyond the gates of this life. It was a curious jumble of crowns and harps and long, white-feathered wings. Mammy's favorite song said, "There's milk an' honey in heaven, I know;" and Aunt Susan often lifted up her cracked voice in the refrain, "Oh, them golden slippahs I'm agwine to wear, when Gabriel blows his trum-pet!" How Uncle Billy could sigh for the time to come when he might walk the shining pavements was beyond John Jay's understanding.

Personally, he preferred the freedom of the neighboring woods and the pleasure of digging in the dirt to all the white robes and crowns that might be laid up somewhere in the skies.

But when George had finished reading, John Jay was not gazing into the clouds for a glimpse of the city to which his friend was going; he was looking down the road. Crowned with all their autumn glory, the far hills stood up fair and golden in the westering sun. It was to some place just as real and beautiful as the hills he looked upon that George was going, not a crowded street with an endless procession of singing, white-robed figures. A far country, under whose waving trees health and strength would be given back to him. No, dying was not a cold, ugly thing.

"_They shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away!_"

George closed the book, and leaning wearily back in the chair, drew his hand over his eyes. "I want you to promise me one thing, John Jay," he said. "That when I am gone you will think of what I am telling you now, and when the colored people all gather around to see this tired body of mine laid aside, you'll remember Dr. Leonard's coat, and you'll say, 'George has left his behind too. He isn't here, but he's just on the other side of the toll-gate.' Will you do that, John Jay?"

There was a frightened look in the boy's eyes. He had no words wherewith to answer him, but he nodded an a.s.sent as he went on nervously tossing the acorns from one hand to another.

There was a long silence, and when he looked up inquiringly, George had put his thin hands over his face to hide the tears that were slowly trickling down.

"What's the mattah?" he asked anxiously. "Shall I call Mars' Nat?"

"No," answered the man, steadying his voice. "I was only thinking that I had expected to go through the gate, when my turn came, with my arms piled full of sheaves,--but I've come to the end too soon. It seems so hard to come down to death empty-handed, when I have longed all these years to do so much for my people. Oh, my poor people!" he cried out desperately; "so helpless and so needy, and my life that was to have been given to them going out in vain! utterly in vain!"

It was not the first time that John Jay had heard that cry. In these weeks of constant companionship George had talked so much of his hopes and plans, that a faint spark of that same ambition had begun to smoulder slowly in the boy's ignorant little heart. Six months ago he could have had no understanding of such a grief as now made George's voice to tremble; but love had opened his eyes to many things, and made his sympathies keen. He drew nearer, saying almost in a whisper: "But Uncle Billy says you fought a good fight while you was gettin' ready to help us cul'ud folks, an' if you got so knocked up you can't do nothin'

moah, maybe 'twon't be expected as you should have yo' hands full when you go through the gates. You've got yo' scars to show for what you've done."

George lifted up his head. There was an eager light in his eyes, not so much because of the comfort that had come from such an unexpected quarter, as because of a new hope that the words suggested. He lifted the boy's chin with a trembling hand, and looked wistfully into his eyes.

"You could do it, couldn't you?" he asked. "All that I must leave undone? The struggle would not be so great for you. There are schools near at hand now. You would not have the fearful odds to contend with that I had. _Will_ you take up my battle? Shall I leave you my sword, John Jay? Oh, you _do_ understand me, don't you?" he cried, imploringly.

"Yes, I understand," answered the boy. Then, as if George had really placed an epaulet upon his shoulder, as if he had really given him a sword, he drew a long breath and said with all the solemnity of a promise: "Some day Uncle Billy shall say that about me, 'He have fought a good fight,--he have finished his co'se.'"

[Ill.u.s.tration: Swords]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Tollgate (up)]

CHAPTER IX.

It came to pa.s.s as George had said. One cold, rainy day when the wind rustled the fallen leaves and sighed through all the bare branches, he came haltingly up to the end of his lonely pilgrimage. It was given to little John Jay to hold his hand and look into his eyes as Death swung up the bar and bade him pa.s.s on.

A wondering smile flitted across the beloved face; then that mysterious silence that bars all sight and speech fell between the freed spirit hastening up the eternal highway and the trembling boy left sobbing behind.

Mars' Nat turned away with tears in his eyes and looked out of the window. "Through thick and thin, he's the one soul who loved me and believed in me," he said, in a half whisper. "His poor, black hands have upheld the old family standards and ideals far more faithfully than mine, both in his slavery and his freedom."

Because of this there was no grave made for George in the forsaken shadow of Brier Crook church. He was given a place on the hill, beside the Chadwicks, whose name he had borne unsullied, and to whose honor he had been proudly loyal.

"That was a gran' funeral occasion, sis' Sheba," exclaimed Aunt Susan, as she took off the rusty c.r.a.pe veil that had served at the funerals of two generations. "I reckon every cul'ud person around heah was present.

Three ministahs a helpin', an' fo'teen white families sendin' flowahs with their cards on isn't to be seen every day in the yeah. I wouldn't have missed it for anything."

"No, indeed," answered Mammy, with a mournful shake of the head. "Dyin'

would be somethin' to look forwa'ds to if we could all hope for such a buryin' as that. But I'm beat about John Jay. He do seem so onfeelin'.

He loved that man bettah than anything on this yearth, an' I s'posed he'd take his death mighty hard; but what you reckon he said to me this mawnin'. I was i'onin' my black aidged handkerchief to take, when he says to me, sezee, 'What you want to put on mo'nin' for Rev'und Gawge for? He said to tell you all that he jus' gone through the toll-gate.'"

"You don't tell me!" exclaimed Aunt Susan. "That sut'n'ly sounds on-natchel in a chile like him."

"Yes," continued Mammy, "I haven't seen him shed a tear. He jus' wandahs around the yard, same as if nothin' had happened, and nevah says a word about it."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Sat alone by the church steps]

She did not know how many times he slipped away from the other children and sat alone by the church steps, where he had so often listened to George's vesper melodies. She did not know what mournful cadences of memory thrilled him, as he rocked himself back and forth among the dead weeds, with his arms around his knees and his head bowed on them. She knew nothing of the music that had sung wordless longings into his simple child-heart until it awakened answering voices of a deathless ambition. So her surprise knew no bounds when he came slowly into the cabin one evening, and asked if he might be allowed to start to school the following week.

"Law, chile!" she answered. "They isn't any school for cul'ud folks less'n a mile an' a half away, an' besides, you hasn't clothes fitten to wear. The scholars would all laugh at you."

Still he persisted. "What put such a notion in yo' head, anyhow?" she demanded.

John Jay turned his face aside, and busied himself with taking another reef in his suspenders. "The Rev'und Gawge wanted me to go," he said, in a low tone. "Besides, how can I know what all's in the books he done left me 'thout I learn to read?"

"That's so," a.s.sented Mammy, looking proudly at the shelves now ornamenting one corner of the little cabin with George's well-worn school-books. Most of the volumes were upside down, because her untutored eyes knew no better than to replace them so, when she took them out to dust them with loving care. They were George's greatest treasures, and she allowed no one to touch them, not even John Jay, to whom they had been left.

"What does a little n.i.g.g.ah like him want of schoolin'," she had once said to Uncle Billy, when he had proposed sending the boy to school to keep him out of mischief. "Why, that John Jay he hasn't got any mo' mind than a gra.s.shoppah. All he knows how to do is jus' to keep on a jumpin'.

No, brer Billy, it would be a pure waste of good education to spend it on anybody like him."

John Jay had always cheerfully agreed with this opinion, which she never hesitated to express in his hearing. He had had no desire to give up his unlettered liberty until that day on the haymow when he had his awakening. Having heard Mammy's opinion so often, it was no wonder that he kept his head turned bashfully aside, and stumbled over his words when he timidly made his request. It was the sight of George's books that gave him courage to persist, and it was the sight of the books that decided Mammy's answer. She could remember the time when Jintsey's boy had been almost as light-headed and light-hearted as John Jay; so it was not past belief that even John Jay might settle down in time.

The thought that he might some day be able to read the books that George had pored over, and that, possibly, some time in the far future he might be fitted to preach the gospel George had proclaimed, aroused all her grandmotherly pride. Some fragment of a half-forgotten sermon floated through her mind as she looked on the ragged little fellow standing before her.

"The mantle of the prophet 'Lijah done fell on his servant 'Lisha," she muttered under her breath. "What if the mantle of Gawge Chadwick have been left to my poah Ellen's boy, 'long with them books?"

John Jay was balancing himself on one foot, while he drew the toes of the other along a crack in the floor between the puncheons, anxiously awaiting her decision. Not knowing what was pa.s.sing through her mind, he was not prepared for the abrupt change in both her speech and manner. He almost lost his balance when she suddenly gave her consent; but, regaining it quickly, he tumbled through the door, giving vent to his delight in a series of whoops that made Mammy's head ring, and brought her to the door, scolding crossly.

A few minutes later, a dusky little figure crept through the gloaming, and rustled softly through the leaves lying on the path. Resting his arms on the fence, he looked across the dim fields to the darkly outlined tree-tops of the hill beyond.

"I wondah if he knows that I'm keepin' my promise," he whispered. "I wondah if he knows I'm tryin' to follow him."

Over the churchyard hill the new moon swung its slender crescent of light, and into its silvery wake there trembled out of the darkness a shining star.