The Bishop of Cottontown Part 83

"I beg yo' pardon, sah--but I was not awares that I had any nephew in the mill, or was related to anybody in here, sah. I hav'nt my visitin' cyard with me, but if I had 'em heah you'd find my ent.i.tlements, on readin', was somethin' lak this: _Miss Maria Conway, of Zion!_"

Kingsley flushed, rebuked. Then he adjusted his gla.s.ses again with agitated nervous attempts at a lilt. Then he struck his level and fell back on his natural instinct, unmixed, with attempts at being what he was not:

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Conway"--

"Git my ent.i.tlements right, please sah. I'm the only old maid lady of color you ever seed or ever will see again. n.i.g.g.ahs, these days, lak birds, all git 'em a mate some way--but I'm Miss Conway of Zion."

"Ah, beg pardon, Miss Conway--Miss Conway of Zion. And where, pray, is that city, Miss Conway? I may have to have an officer communicate with you."

"With pleasure, sah--It's a pleasure for me to he'p people find a place dey'd never find without help--no--not whilst they're a-workin'

the life out of innocent tots an' babes--"

Kingsley flushed hot, angered:

"What do you mean, old woman?"

"The ole woman means," she said, looking him steadily in the eye, "that you are dealin' in chile slavery, law or no law; that you're down heah preachin' one thing for n.i.g.g.ahs an' practisin' another for yo' own race; that yo' hair frizzles on yo' head at tho'rt of n.i.g.g.ah slavery, whilst all the time you are enslavin' the po' little whites that's got yo' own blood in their veins. An' now you wanter know what I come for? I come for my chile!"

Kingsley was too dumfounded to speak. In all his life never had his hypocrisy been knocked to pieces so completely.

"What does all this mean?" asked Jud Carpenter rushing hastily into the room.

"Come on baby," said the old woman as she started toward the door.

"I've got a home for us, an' whilst old mammy can take in washin'

you'll not wuck yo' life out with these people."

Jud broke in harshly: "Come, ole 'oman,--you put that child down.

You've got nothin' to support her with."

She turned on him quickly: "I've got mo' silver tied up in ole socks that the Conways give me in slavery days when they had it by the bushel, than sech as you ever seed. Got nothin'? Jus' you come over and see the little home I've got fixed up for Ma.r.s.e Ned an' the babies. Got nothin'? See these arms? Do you think they have forgot how to cook an' wash? Come on, baby--we'll be gwine home--Miss Helen'll come later."

"Put her down, old woman," said Carpenter sternly. "You can't take her--she's bound to the mill."

"Oh, I can't?" said the old woman as she walked out with Lily--"Can't take her. Well, jes' look at me an' see. This is what I calls Zion, an' the Lam' an' the wolves had better stay right where they are,"

she remarked dryly, as she walked off carrying Lily in her arms.

Down through a pretty part of the town, away from Cottontown, she led the little girl, laughing now and chatting by the old woman's side, a bird freed from a cage.

"And you'll bring sister Helen, too?" asked Lily.

"That I will, pet,--she'll be home to-night."

"Oh, Mammy, it's so good to have you again--so good, and I thought you never would come."

They walked away from Cottontown and past pretty houses. In a quiet street, with oaks and elms shading it, she entered a yard in which stood a pretty and nicely painted cottage. Lily clapped her hands with laughter when she found all her old things there--even her pet dolls to welcome her--all in the cunningest and quaintest room imaginable. The next room was her father's, and Mammy's room was next to hers and Helen's. She ran out only to run into her father's arms.

Small as she was, she saw that he was sober. He took her on his lap and kissed her.

"My little one," he said--"my little one"--

"Mammy," asked the little girl as the old woman came out--"how did you get all this?"

"Been savin' it all my life, chile--all the money yo' blessed mother give me an' all I earned sence I was free. I laid it up for a rainy day an' now, bless G.o.d, it's not only rainin' but sleetin' an' cold an' snowin' besides, an' so I went to the old socks. It's you all's, an' all paid fur, an' old mammy to wait on you. I'm gwine to go after Miss Helen before the mill closes, else she'll be gwine back to Millwood, knowin' nothin' of all this surprise for her. No, sah,--nary one of yo' mother's chillun shall ever wuck in a mill."

Conway bowed his head. Then he drew Lily to him as he knelt and said: "Oh, G.o.d help me--make me a man, make me a Conway again."

It was his first prayer in years--the beginning of his reformation.

And every reformation began with a prayer.

CHAPTER XVII

THE DOUBLE THAT DIED

Two hours before the mill closed Richard Travis came hurriedly into the mill office. There had been business engagements to be attended to in the town before leaving that night for the North, and he had been absent from the mill all day. Now everything was ready even to his packed trunk--all except Helen.

"He's come for her," said Jud to himself as he walked over to the superintendent's desk.

Then amid the hum and the roar of the mill he bent his head and the two whispered low and earnestly together. As Jud talked in excited whispers, Travis lit a cigar and listened coolly--to Jud's astonishment--even cynically.

"An' what you reckin' she done--the ole 'oman? Tuck the little gyrl right out of my han's an' kerried her home--marched off as proud as ole Queen Victory."

"Home? What home?" asked Travis.

"An' that's the mischief of it," went on Jud. "I thort she was lyin'

about the home, an' I stepped down there at noon an' I hope I may die to-night if she ain't got 'em all fixed up as snug as can be, an' the Major is there as sober es a jedge, an' lookin' like a gentleman an'

actin' like a Conway. Say, but you watch yo' han'. That's blood that won't stan' monkeyin' with when it's in its right mind. An' the little home the ole 'oman's got, she bought it with her own money, been savin' it all her life an' now"--

"What did you say to her this morning?" asked Travis.

"Oh, I cussed her out good--the old black"--

A peculiar light flashed in Richard Travis' eyes. Never before had the Whipper-in seen it. It was as if he had looked up and seen a halo around the moon.

"To do grand things--to do grand things--like that--negro that she is! No--no--of course you did not understand. Our moral sense is gone--we mill people. It is atrophied--yours and mine and all of us--the soul has gone and mine? My G.o.d, why did you give it back to me now--this ghost soul that has come to me with burning breath?"

Jud Carpenter listened in amazement and looked at him suspiciously.

He came closer to see if he could smell whiskey on his breath, but Travis looked at him calmly as he went on: "Why, yes, of course you cursed her--how could you understand? How could you know--you, born soulless, know that you had witnessed something which, what does the old preacher call him--the man Jesus Christ--something He would have stopped and blessed her for. A slave and she saved it for her master.

A negro and she loved little children where we people of much intellect and a higher civilization and Christianity--eh, Jud, Christians"--and he laughed so strangely that Jud took a turn around the room watching Travis out of the corner of his eyes.

"Oh--and you cursed her!"

Jud nodded. "An' to-morrow I'll go an' fetch the little 'un back. Why she's signed--she's our'n for five years."

Travis turned quickly and Jud dodged under the same strange light that showed again in his eyes. Then he laid his hand on Jud's arm and said simply: "No--no--you will not!"

Jud looked at him in open astonishment.