The River's Children Part 9

"Wek up, baby! Wek up!" she cried. "Yo' pa done come! Wek up!"

Without stirring even so much as a thread of her golden hair upon the pillow, the child opened a pair of great blue eyes and looked from Mammy's face to the man's. Then,--so much surer is a child's faith than another's,--doubting not at all, she raised her little arms.

Her father, already upon his knees beside her, bent over, bringing his neck within her embrace, while he inclosed her slender body with his arms. Thus he remained, silent, for a moment, for the agony of his joy was beyond tears or laughter. But presently he lifted his child, and, sitting, took her upon his lap. He could not speak yet, for while he smoothed her beautiful hair and studied her face, noting the blue depths of her darkly fringed eyes, the name that trembled for expression within his lips was "Agnes--Agnes."

"How beautiful she is!" he whispered presently; and then, turning to Hannah, "And how carefully you have kept her! Everything--so sweet."

"Oh, yas!" the old woman hastened to answer. "We ain't spared no pains on 'er, Ma.r.s.e Harol'. She done had eve'ything we could git for her, by hook or by crook. Of co'se she ain't had no _white kin_ to christen her, an' dat was a humiliation to us. She didn't have no to say legal person to bring 'er for'ard, so she ain't nuver been _ca'yed up in church_; but she's had every sort o' christenin' we could reach.

"I knowed yo' pa's ma, ole Ma'am Toinette, she'd turn in her grave lessen her gran'chil' was christened Cat'lic, so I had her christened dat way. Dat ole half-blind priest, Father Some'h'n' other, wha' comes from Bayou de Glaise, he was conductin' ma.s.s meetin' or some'h'n' other, down here in Bouligny, an' I took de baby down, an' he sprinkled her in Latin or some'h'n' other, an' ornamented behind her ears wid unctious ile, an' crossed her little forehead, an' made her eat a few grains o'

table salt. He _done it straight_, wid all his robes on, an' I g'in him a good dollar, too. An' dat badge you see on her neck, a sister o'

charity, wid one o' dese clair-starched ear-flap sunbonnets on, she put dat on her. She say she give it to her to wear so 's she could n't git drownded--_like as ef I'd let her drownd_. Yit an' still I lef' it so, an' I even buys a fresh blue ribbin for it, once-t an'a while. I hear 'em say dat blue hit's de Hail Mary color--an' it becomes her eyes, too.

Dey say what don't pizen fattens, an' I know dem charms couldn't do her no hurt, an', of 'co'se, we don't know all. Maybe dey mought ketch de eye of a hoverin' angel in de air an' bring de baby into Heavenly notice. Of co'se, I wouldn't put no sech as dat on her. I ain't been raised to it, an' I ain't no beggin' hycoprite. But I wouldn't take it off, nuther.

"Den, I knowed ole Mis', yo' ma, she was 'Pistopal, an' Miss Aggie she was Numitarium; so every time a preacher'd be pa.s.sin' I'd git him to perform it his way. Me bein' Baptis' I didn't have no n.i.g.g.e.r baptism to saddle on her.

"So she's bounteously baptized--yas, sir. I reasoned it out dat ef dey's only one _true_ baptism, an' I war n't to say _sh.o.r.e_ which one it was, I better git 'em all, an' only de _onlies'_ true one would _count_; an'

den ag'in, ef all honest baptisms is good, den de mo' de merrier, as de Book say. Of co'se I knowed pyore rain-water sprinkled on wid a blessin'

couldn't hurt no chile.

"You see, when one side de house is _French distraction_ an' de yether is _English to-scent_, an' dey's a dozen side-nations wid _blood to tell_ in all de branches,--well, hit minds me o' dis _ba'm of a thousan'

flowers_ dat ole Mis' used to think so much of. Hits hard to 'stinguish out any one flagrams.

"But talkin' about de baby, she ain't been deprived, no mo' 'n de Lord deprived her, for a season, of her rights to high livin' an'--an'

aristoc'acy--an'--an' petigree, an' posterity, an' all sech as dat.

"An'--

"What dat you say, Mars' Harol'? What _name_ is we--'

"We ain't dast to give 'er no name, Baby, no mo' 'n jes Blossom. I got 'er wrote down in five citi_fic_ates 'Miss Blossom,' jes so. No, sir. I knows my colored place, an' I'll go so far, an' dat's all de further.

She was jes as much a blossom befo' she was christened as she was arterwards, so my namin' 'er don't count. I was 'mos' tempted to call out 'Agnes' to de preachers, when dey'd look to me for a name, seem' it was her right--like as ef she was borned to it; but--I ain't nuver imposed on her. No, sir, we ain't imposed on her noways.

"De on'iest wrong I ever done her--an' Gord knows I done it to save her to my arms, an' for you, marster--de on'iest wrong was to let her go widout her little sunbonnet an' git her skin browned up so maybe n.o.body wouldn't s'picion she was clair white an' like as not try to wrest her from me. An' _one_ time, when a uppish yo'ng man ast me her name, I said it straight, but I see him look mighty cu'yus, an' I spoke up an'

say, 'What other name you 'spect' her to have? My name is Hannah Le Duc, an' I's dat child's daddy's mammy.' Excuse me, Mars' Harold, but you know I _is_ yo' _black_ mammy--_an' I was in so'e straits_.

"So de yo'ng man, well, he didn't seem to have no raisin'. He jes sort o' whistled, an' say I sho is got one mighty blon' gran'chil'--an' I 'spon', 'Yas, sir; so it seems.'

"An' dat's de on'ies' wrong I ever done her. She sets up at her little dinner-table sot wid a table-cloth an' a white napkin,--an' I done buyed her a ginuine silver-plated napkin-ring to hold it in, too,--an' she says her own little blessin'--dat short 'Grace o' Gord--material binefets,' one o' Miss Aggie's; I learned it to her. No, she ain't been handled keerless, ef she is been livin' on de outside o' de levee, like free n.i.g.g.e.rs. But we ain't to say _lived_ here, 'not perzackly, marster. We jes been waitin' along, _so_, dese five years--waitin' for to-night.

"I ain't nuver sorted her clo'es out into no bureau; I keeps 'em all in her little trunk, perpared to move along."

For a moment the realization of the culmination of her faith seemed to suffuse her soul, and as she proceeded, her voice fell in soft, rhythmic undulations.

"Ya-as, Mars' Harol', Mammy's baby boy, yo' ol' nuss she been waitin', an' o-ole man Isrul _he_ been waitin', an' de Blossom _she_ been waitin'. I 'spec' she had de firmes' faith, arter all, de baby did. Day by day we all waited--an' night by night. An' sometimes when courage would burn low an' de lamp o' faith grow dim, seem like we'd a' broke loose an' started a-wanderin' in a sort o' blind search, _'cep'n' for de river_.

"Look like ef we'd ever went beyan' de river's call, we'd been same as de chillen o' Isrul lost in de tanglement o' de wilderness. All we river chillen, we boun' to stay by her, same as toddlin' babies hangs by a mammy's skirts. She'll whup us one day, an' chastise us severe; den she'll bring us into de light, same as she done to-night--same as reel mammies does.

"An', Mars' Harol'--"

She lowered her voice.

"Mars' Harol', don't tell me she don't know! I tell yer, me an' dis River we done spent many a dark night together under de stars, an' we done talked an' answered one another so many lonely hours--an' she done showed us so many mericles on land _an'_ water--

"I tell yer, I done found out some'h'n' about de River, Mars' Harol'.

She's--why, she's--

"Oh, ef I could only write it all down to go in a book! We been th'ough some _merac'lous_ times together, sho' 's you born--sho' 's you born.

"She's a mericle mystery, sho'!

"You lean over an' dip yo' han' in her an' you take it up an' you say it's _wet_. You dig yo' oars into her, an' she'll spin yo' boat over her breast. You dive down into her, an' you come up--_or don't come up_.

Some eats her. Some drinks her. Some gethers wealth outen her. Some draps it into her. Some drownds in her.

"An' she gives an' takes, an' seem like all her chillen gits satisfaction outen her, one way an' another; but yit an' still, she ain't nuver fl.u.s.tered. On an' on she goes--rain or shine--high water--low water--all de same--on an' on.

"When she craves diamonds for her neck, she reaches up wid long onvisible hands an' gethers de stars out'n de firmamint.

"De moon is her common breastpin, an' de sun--

"Even he don't faze her. She takes what she wants, an' sends back his fire every day.

"De mists is a veil for her face, an' de showers fringes it.

"Sunrise or dusklight, black night or midday, every change she answers _whilst she's pa.s.sin'_.

"But who ever _in_ticed her to stop or to look or listen? n.o.body, Baby.

An' why?

"Oh, Lord! ef eve'ybody only knowed!

"You see, all sech as dat, I used to study over it an' ponder befo' we started to talk back an' fo'th--de River an' me.

"One dark night she heared me cryin' low on de bank, whilst de ole man stepped into de boat to row 'crost de water, an' she felt Wood-duck settle heavy on her breast, an' she seen dat we carried de same troublous thought--searchin' an' waitin' for the fulfilment o' promise.

"An' so we started to call--an' to answer, heart to heart."

The story is nearly told. No doubt many would be willing to have it stop here. But a tale of the river is a tale of greed, and must have satisfaction.

While father and child sat together, Israel came, bringing fresh chips.

He had been among the woodpiles again. This time there followed him the dog.

"Why, Blucher!" Harold exclaimed. "Blucher, old fellow!" And at his voice the dog, whining and sniffing, climbed against his shoulder, even licking his face and his hand. Then, running off, he barked at Israel and Hannah, telling them in fine dog Latin who the man was who had come.

Then he crouched at his feet, and, after watching his face a moment, laid his head upon his master's right foot, a trick Harold had taught him as a pup.