The River's Children Part 8

Reluctantly at first, but afterward seeing his way through experience, Harold became authorized agent for some of the best properties along the river, saving what was left, and sometimes even recovering whole estates for the women in black who had known before only how to be good and beautiful in the romantic homes and gardens whose pervading perfume had been that of the orange-blossom.

It was on returning hurriedly from a trip to one of these places on the upper river--the property of one Marie Estelle Josephine Ramsey de La Rose, widowed at "Yellow Tavern"--that he sought the ferry skiff on the night old man Israel answered the call.

VIII

Little the old man dreamed, while he waited, midstream, trying to think out his problem, that the solution was so near at hand.

We have seen how the old wife waited and prayed on the sh.o.r.e; how with her shaded mind she groped, as many a wiser has done, for a comforting, common-sense understanding of faith, that intangible "substance of things hoped for," that elusive "evidence of things not seen."

In a moment after she heard the creaking of the timbers as the skiff chafed the landing, even while she rose, as was her habit, to see who might be coming over so late, she dimly perceived two men approaching, Israel and another; and presently she saw that Israel held the man's hand and that he walked unsteadily.

She started, fearing that her man was hurt; but before she could find voice of fear or question, Israel had drawn the stranger to her and was saying in a broken voice:

"Hannah! Hannah! Heah Mars' Harol'!"

Only a moment before, with her dim eyes fixed upon the sky, she had experienced a realization of faith, and believed herself confidently awaiting her master's coming. And yet, seeing him now in the flesh before her, she exclaimed:

"What foolishness is dis, ole man? Don't practice no jokes on me to-night, Isrul!"

Her voice was almost gruff, and she drew back as she spoke. But even while she protested, Harold had laid his hand upon her arm.

"Mammy," he whispered huskily, "don't you know your 'indurin' devil'--?"

(This had been her last, worst name for her favorite during his mischief period.)

Harold never finished his sentence. The first sound of his voice had identified him, but the shock had confused her. When at last she sobbed "Hush! I say, hush!" her arms were about his knees and she was crying aloud.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Her arms were about his knees"]

"Glo-o-o--oh--glo-o-o--glo-o-ry! Oh, my Gord!" But presently, wiping her eyes, she stammered: "What kep' you so, Baby? Hol' me up, chile--hol'

me!"

She was falling, but Harold steadied her with strong arms, pressing her into her chair, but retaining her trembling hand while he sat upon the low table beside her.

He could not speak at once, but, seeing her head drop upon her bosom, he called quickly to Israel. For answer, a clarion note, in no wise m.u.f.fled by the handkerchief from which it issued, came from the woodpile. Israel was shy of his emotions and had hidden himself.

By the time he appeared, sniffling, Hannah had rallied, and was pressing Harold from her to better study his face at long range.

"What happened to yo' hair, Baby?" she said presently. "Hit looks as bright as dat flaxion curl o' yoze I got in my Testamen'. I was lookin'

at it only a week ago las' Sunday, an' wishin' I could read de book 'long wid de curl."

"It is much lighter than that, Mammy. It is whiter than yours. I have lived the sorrows of a long life in a few years."

Israel still stood somewhat aside and was taking no note of their speech, which he presently interrupted nervously:

"H-how you reckon Mars' Harol' knowed me, Hannah? He--he reco'nized his horn! You ricollec' when I fotched dat horn f'om de islan' roun' my neck, clean 'crost de flood, you made game o' me, an' I say I mought have need of it? But of co'se I didn't ca'culate to have it ac-_chilly_ call Mars' Harol' home! I sho' didn't! But dat's what it done. Cep'n'

for de horn's call bein' so familius, he'd 'a' paid me my dime like a stranger an' pa.s.sed on."

At this Harold laughed.

"Sure enough, Uncle Israel; you didn't collect my ferriage, did you? I reckon you'll have to charge that."

Israel chuckled:

"Lord, Hannah, listen! Don't dat soun' like ole times? Dey don't charge nothin' in dese han'-to-mouf days, Ma.r.s.e Harol'--not roun' heah."

"But tell me, Uncle Israel, how did you happen to bring that old horn with you--sure enough?" Harold interrupted.

"I jes fotched it _'ca'se I couldn't leave it_--de way Hannah s.n.a.t.c.hed yo' po'trit off de wall--all in dat deluge. Hit's heah in de cabin now to witness de trip. But in co'se o' time de horn, hit come handy when I tuk de ferry-skift.

"Well, Hannah, when he stepped aboa'd, he all but shuk de ole skift to pieces. I ought to knowed dat Le Duc high-step, but I didn't. I jes felt his tread, an' s'luted him for a gentleman, an' axed him for Gord sake to set down befo' we'd be capsided in de river. I war n't cravin' to git drownded wid no aristoc'acy.

"De moon she was hidin', dat time, an' we couldn't see much; but he leant over an' he say, 'Uncle,' he say, 'who blowed dat horn 'crost de river?' An' I say, 'Me, sir. I blowed it.' Den he say, 'Whose horn _is_ dat?' An' I 'spon', 'Hit's _my_ horn, sir.' Den my conscience begin to gnaw, an' I sort o' stammered, 'Leastways, it b'longs to a frien' o'

mine wha' look like he ain't nuver gwine to claim it.' I ain't say who de frien' was, but d'rec'ly he pushed me to de wall. He ax me p'intedly to my face, 'What yo' frien' name, uncle?' An at dat I got de big head an' I up an' snap out:

"'Name Le Duc, sir, Harry Le Duc.'

"Jes free an' easy, so, I say it. Lord have mussy! Ef I'd s'picioned dat was Mars' Harol' settin' up dar listenin' at me callin' his name so sociable an' free, I'd 'a' drapped dem oa's overbo'ad. I sho' would.

"Well, when I say 'Harry Le Duc,' seem like he got kind o' seasick, de way he bent his head down, an' I ax him how he come on--ef he got de miz'ry anywhars. An' wid dat he sort o' give out a dry laugh, an' den what you reckon he ax me? He say, 'Uncle, is you married?' An' wid dat _I_ laughed. 'T war n't no trouble for me to laugh at dat. I 'spon', 'Yas, sirree! You bet I is! Does I look like air rovin' bachelor?' I was jes about half mad by dis time.

"Well, so he kep' on quizzifyin' me: ax me whar I live, an' I tol' 'im I was a ole risidenter on de levee heah for five years past; an' so we run on, back an' fo'th, tell we teched de sho'. An' time de skift b.u.mped de landin' he laid his han' on me an' he say, 'Unc' Isrul, whar's Mammy Hannah?' An' den--bless Gord! I knowed him! But I ain't trus' myself to speak. I des nach.e.l.ly clawed him an' drug him along to you. I seen de fulfilment o' promise, an' my heart was bustin' full, but I ain't got no halleluiah tongue like you. I jes pa.s.sed him along to you an' made for de woodpile!"

It was a great moment for Harold, this meeting with the only people living who could tell all there was to know of those who were gone.

Hannah's memory was too photographic for judicious reminiscence. The camera's great imperfection lies in its very accuracy in recording non-essentials, with resulting confusion of values. So the old woman, when she turned her mental search-light backward, "beginning at the beginning," which to Harold seemed the end of all--the day of his departure,--recounted every trivial incident of the days, while Harold listened through the night, often suffering keenly in his eagerness to know the crucial facts, yet fearing to interrupt her lest some precious thing be lost.

A reflected sunrise was reddening the sky across the river when she reached the place in the story relating to the baby. Her description needed not any coloring of love to make it charming, and while he listened the father murmured under his breath:

"And then to have lost her!"

"What dat you say, Ma.r.s.e Harol'?" Hannah gasped, her quick ears having caught his despairing tone.

"Oh, nothing, Mammy. Go on. It did seem cruel to have the little one drowned. But I don't blame you. It is a miracle that you old people saved yourselves."

The old woman turned to her husband and threw up her hands.

"Wh-why, Isrul!" she stammered.

"What's de matter wid you--to set heah all night an' listen at me talkin' all roun' de baby--an' ain't named her yit!"

She rose and, drawing Harold after her, entered the door at her back. As she pulled aside the curtain a ray of sunlight fell full upon the sleeping child.

"Heah yo' baby, Baby!" Her low voice, steadied by its pa.s.sages through greater crises, was even and gentle.

She laid her hand upon the child.