The River's Children Part 10

IX

Of course Harold wished to take the entire family home with him at once, and would hear to nothing else until Hannah, serving black coffee to him from her furnace, in the dawn, begged that she and Israel might have "a few days to rest an' to study" before moving.

It was on the second evening following this, at nightfall, while her man was away in his boat, that the old woman rose from her chair and, first studying the heavens and then casting about her to see that no one was near, she went down to the water, slowly picking her way to a shallow pool between the rafts and the sh.o.r.e. She sat here at first, upon the edge of the bank, frankly dropping her feet into the water while she seemed to begin to talk--or possibly she sang, for the low sound which only occasionally rose above the small noises of the rafts was faintly suggestive of a priest's intoning.

For a moment only, she sat thus. Then she began to lower herself into the water, until, leaning, she could lay her face against the sod, so that a wave pa.s.sed over it, and when, letting her weight go, she subsided, with arms extended, into the shallow pool, a close listener might have heard an undulating song, so like the river's in tone as to be separable from it only through the faint suggestion of words, interrupted or drowned at intervals by the creaking and knocking of the rafts and the gurgling of the sucking eddies about them.

The woman's voice--song, speech, or what not?--_seemed_ intermittent, as if in converse with another presence.

Suddenly, while she stood thus, she dropped bodily, going fully under the water for a brief moment, as if renewing her baptism, and when she presently lifted herself, she was crying aloud, sobbing as a child sobs in the awful momentary despair of grief at the untwining of arms--shaken, unrestrained.

While she stood thus for a few minutes only,--a pathetic waste of sorrow, wet, dark and forlorn, alone on the night-sh.o.r.e,--a sudden wind, a common evening current, threw a foaming wave over the logs beside her so that its spray covered her over; while the straining ropes, breaking and b.u.mping timbers, with the slow dripping of the spent wave through the raft, seemed to answer and possibly to a.s.suage her agitation; for, as the wind pa.s.sed and the waters subsided, she suddenly grew still, and, climbing the bank as she had come, walked evenly as one at peace, into her cabin.

No one will ever know what, precisely, was the nature of this last communion. Was it simply an intimate leave-taking of a faithful companionship grown dear through years of stress? Or had it deeper meaning in a realization--or hallucination--as to the personality of the river--the "secret" to which she only once mysteriously referred in a gush of confidence on her master's return?

Perhaps she did not know herself, or only vaguely felt what she could not tell. Certainly not even to her old husband, one with her in life and spirit, did she try to convey this mystic revelation. We know by intuition the planes upon which our minds may meet with those of our nearest and dearest. To the good man and soldier, Israel,--the prophet, even, who held up the wavering hands of the imaginative woman when her courage waned, pointing to the hour of fulfilment,--the great river, full of potencies for good or ill, could be only a river. As a mirror it had shown him divinity, and in its character it might _typify_ to his image-loving mind another thing which service would make it precious.

But what he would have called his sanity--had he known the word--would have obliged him to stop there.

The stars do not tell, and the poor moon--at best only hinting what the sun says--is fully half-time off her mind. And the SOUL OF THE RIVER--if, indeed, it has once broken silence--may not speak again.

And, so, her secret is safe--safe even if the broken winds did catch a breath, here and there, sending it flurriedly through and over the logs until they trembled with a sort of mad harp-consciousness, and were set a-quivering for just one full strain--one coherent expression of soul-essence--when the wave broke. Perhaps the arms of the twin spirits were untwined--and they went their separate ways smiling--the woman and the river.

When, after a short time, the old wife came out, dressed in fresh clothing, her white, starched tignon shining in the moonlight, to sit and talk with her husband, her composure was as perfect as that of the face of the water which in its serenity suggested the voice of the Master, when Peter would have sunk but for his word.

This was to be their last night here. Harold was to bring a carriage on the next day to take them to his mother and Blossom, and, despite the joy in their old hearts, it cost them a pang to contemplate going away.

Every woodpile seemed to hold a memory, each feature of the bank a tender a.s.sociation. Blucher lay sleeping beside them.

Israel spoke first.

"Hannah!" he said.

"What, Isrul?"

"I ready to go home to-night, Hannah. Ma.r.s.e Harol' done come. We done finished our 'sponsibility--an' de big river's a-flowin' on to de sea--an' settin' heah, I 'magines I kin see Mis' Aggie lookin' down on us, an' seem like she mought want to consult wid us arter our meetin'

wid Ma.r.s.e Harol' an' we pa.s.sin' Blossom along. What you say, Hannah?"

"I been tired, ole man, an' ef we could 'a' went las' night, like you say, seem like I 'd 'a' been ready--an', of co'se, I'm ready now, ef Gord wills. Peace is on my sperit. Yit an' still, when we rests off a little an' studies freedom free-handed, we won't want to hasten along maybe. Ef we was to set heah an' wait tell Gord calls us,--He ain't ap'

to call us bofe together, an' dey'd be lonesome days for the last one.

But ef we goes 'long wid Ma.r.s.e Harol', he an' Blossom'll be a heap o'

comfort to de one what's left."

"Hannah!"

"Yas, Isrul."

"We's a-settin' to-night close to de brink--ain't dat so?"

"Yas, Isrul."

"An' de deep waters is in sight, eh, Hannah?"

"Yas, Isrul."

"An' we heah it singin', ef we listen close, eh, Hannah?"

"Yas, Isrul."

"Well, don't let 's forgit it, dat 's all. Don't let's forgit, when we turns our backs on dis swellin' tide, dat de river o' Jordan is jes befo' us, all de same--an' it can't be long befo' our crossin'-time."

"Amen!" said the woman.

The moon shone full upon the great river, making a shimmering path of light from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, when the old couple slowly rose and went to rest.

Toward morning there was a quick gurgling sound in front of the cabin.

Blucher caught it, and, springing out, barked at the stars. The sleepers within the levee hut slept on, being overweary.

The watchman in the Carrollton garden heard the sound,--heard it swell almost to a roar,--and he ran to the new levee, reaching its summit just in time to see the roof of the cabin as it sank, with the entire point of land upon which it rested, into the greedy flood.

When Harold Le Duc arrived that morning to take the old people home, the river came to meet him at the brim of the near bank, and its face was as the face of smiling innocence.

While he stood awe-stricken before the awful fact so tragically expressed in the river's bland denial, a wet dog came, and, whining, crouched at his feet. He barked softly, laid his head a moment upon his master's boot, moaned a sort of confidential note, and, looking into the air, barked again, softly.

Did he see more than he could tell? Was he trying to comfort his master?

He had heard all the sweet converse of the old people on that last night, and perhaps he was saying in his poor best speech that all was well.

Mammy Hannah and Uncle Israel, having discharged their responsibility, had crossed the River together.

PART THIRD

"Oh, it 's windy, Sweet Lucindy, On de river-bank to-night, An' de moontime Beats de noontime, When de trimblin' water 's white."

So runs the plantation love-song, and so sang a great brown fellow as, with oars over his shoulder, he strolled down "Lovers' Lane," between the _bois d'arcs_, toward the Mississippi levee.

He repeated it correctly until he neared the gourd-vine which marked the home of his lady, when he dropped his voice a bit and, eschewing rhyme for the greater value, sang:

"Oh, it 's windy, Sweet Maria, On de river-bank to-night--"

And slackening his pace until he heard footsteps behind him, he stopped and waited while a lithe yellow girl overtook him languidly.