A DISTRESSING INCIDENT

Hal May remained at home only two days, but in that time his old uniform was patched and Aunt Decent plied him with food until he pleaded lack of room for more, so that when he went away he had perceptibly improved in appearance.

Again the May household settled down to the humdrum business of waiting for news of the armies. And Sherman’s march through Georgia gave the people of little Washington many anxious moments, though it soon became apparent that their town would escape and that after Atlanta, Savannah was the chief objective of the Federal expedition.

Of Val Tracy there was scarcely a word. He seemed to have dropped out of sight, but not out of the minds of his friends. Dorothea, remembering the last time she had seen him mount his horse and ride away, wondered often what was happening to him. She and Miss Imogene talked much of the young Irishman and speculated also upon the fortune of young Stanchfield whose whereabouts were still unknown to them.

Dorothea had grown to be one of the family and her aunt treated her as if she were another daughter. Harriot was her devoted slave, and at first April had shown a fondness for her English cousin, which she had been quick to return. But there was none of the close intimacy between the two that Dorothea would have welcomed.

And the cause of this was not far to seek. Even Dorothea realized that a certain change had come in her feelings toward the rights and wrongs of the war. It was impossible for her to respond to April’s enthusiastic support of everything the Confederacy represented. Nor could she condemn the North in all things with the fervor April expected of those who claimed sympathy with the South. Always there was the remembrance of her visit to Mr. Lincoln. When she heard the Union execrated with unmeasured bitterness she pictured in her mind the tall, gentle man in Washington into whose eyes she had looked. There she had read the truth, and knew that he had none of the sordid qualities that were attributed to him by his unreasoning enemies. Dorothea did not believe that he could be wrong in his efforts to solve the great problems confronting him, for she knew that his heart held a great sympathy for the South.

Thus as the summer passed she began to realize that a change was taking place in her thoughts about the conflict. And at about the same time she felt that her relations with April had grown strained. She only became aware of it gradually when she noted that her beautiful cousin was apt to leave the room where she was. There were no longer any of the little demonstrations of affection that had marked their earlier intimacy. Constantly she caught April’s eyes upon her as if she was watched with suspicion. There was no act or word that Dorothea could lay hold of, yet all the time she realized a widening of the breach between them.

One rainy morning in the Autumn, Dorothea had gone out on the porch to look for some sign of clearing weather, when her attention was attracted by two drenched figures coming slowly up the drive toward the house. They were colored servants, one an old woman and the other quite a lad, and they were in a truly pitiable state. They were soaked through and their clothing clung to them, dripping water as they walked.

At sight of Dorothea they hastened their steps and, arriving at the porch, begged to be permitted to see “Ol’ Miss.”

Dorothea brought them in out of the wet and went in search of her aunt, whom she found in the weaving-room. Together they returned to the porch, and at sight of the forlorn couple Mrs. May gave an exclamation of surprise.

“Why, Aunt Dilsey, is it you?” she cried. “What brings you here on a day like this?”

For answer the old woman threw herself on her knees at Mrs. May’s feet, her brown face working convulsively.

“Sam and me—we’s done run away!” she sobbed.

“Run away?” echoed Mrs. May as if she could scarcely believe her ears. “Nonsense, Aunt Dilsey! You can’t run away. You’re one of the family.”

“Yes’m, I is,” the old woman moaned, “but we-all’s jes’ ’bliged to run away, and we knows the patrollers will be out after us. That’s why we-all done come hehe. I’s been mighty proud all my days. I’s always said, ‘Dilsey can tote heh own skillet,’ but please, Ol’ Miss, Dilsey can’t tote no skillet no mo’.”

The woman rocked herself with grief and Mrs. May looked down upon her pityingly.

“Get up, Dilsey,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you can’t explain, let Sam do it.”

The old colored woman continued to mumble unintelligibly till at last Mrs. May silenced her.

“Now, Sam,” she said, turning to the boy, “what is the trouble?”

Somewhat sullenly Sam found his tongue.

“Ouah Ol’ Miss, she’s aimin’ to sell me down the river to Savannah,” he began, “and Granny, heah, she don’t like it nohow, and I don’t like it nohow neither, so I’s aimin’ to run away up North an’ be free.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” Mrs. May replied incredulously. “You two go into the kitchen and visit Aunt Decent and dry yourselves. I’ll send you back home. Mrs. Stewart doesn’t sell her servants. It’s absurd.”

“Ouah Ol’ Miss done sold Casper and Manders to a man from Macon no later’n yestehday, Miss ’Thenia,” Sam insisted doggedly. “They’re done gone a’ready. If I’s done got to go away from Granny I’s goin’ No’th whehe I’ll be free—less’n the houn’s catch me first.”

Dorothea had watched her aunt’s face grow graver and graver as she heard these words.

“I cannot believe what you are saying, Sam,” she replied, though her tone was not so positive now. “How could it have happened? Have the boys been stealing or disobedient?”

“No’m,” the lad answered readily. “This man from Macon, he wanted carpenters, and he was ready to pay for ’em in gold, Miss ’Thenia. So ouah Ol’ Miss she done sol’ ’em, that’s all.”

“An’ now she’s aimin’ to sell Sam, too, the onlies’ one of my Dilly’s pickaninnies what I done raise to comfort me. Please, Miss ’Thenia, buy us bofe. We’ll work for you till we drops. Honest we will, and we’ll—”

The old woman’s voice trailed off into uncontrollable sobs.

“There is certainly some mistake,” Mrs. May said, turning to Dorothea. “Would you mind, dear, fetching April for me.”

Dorothea ran off and soon returned with her cousin, to whom the situation was explained at once.

“There is some misunderstanding, of course,” Mrs. May ended, “but it is not a matter that can be delayed. It must be settled at once.”

“You’d better let me go, mother,” April suggested. “I can’t believe Aunt Cora could possibly do what Aunt Dilsey thinks, and it’s very wet for you.”

“No, I will leave Sam and Aunt Dilsey for you to look after,” Mrs. May replied significantly, and it was plain to April that she did not wish their story to be repeated throughout the quarters by the two. “I’ll take Dorothea with me and go over to Cora’s. Send one of the boys to tell Jastrow.”

April with Aunt Dilsey and Sam in tow disappeared. The carriage was ready almost as soon as Mrs. May and Dorothea, and once on their way the girl ventured to ask something about Aunt Dilsey and her grandson.

“She was Mother May’s cook when I was first married,” Mrs. May explained. “Your Aunt Cora, who was married some years later, always lived with her mother till the old lady died, so it was natural that she should inherit all the old house servants. Aunt Dilsey’s children are all dead too, and Sam is her only kin; so you see why she dreads to be separated from him. It is quite unheard of with us to separate families by selling them, and I am quite sure that there is some mistake. I am only going over now to make certain.”

Dorothea hoped that this might be the case. This question of slave-owning had puzzled wiser heads than hers, but so far she had seen the best side of the matter. The May servants were fortunate, in that their owners had their interests wholly at heart, indeed Dorothea frequently observed that the child-like negroes took advantage of this indulgence. On the other hand she had heard talk of hard masters who worked their slaves without consideration; those with whom she had been associated condemned this quite frankly, though as a body they felt that they must uphold the practice of slave-owning no matter what its abuses might be. Indeed they were quite sincere in their belief that their people were unfit to take care of themselves and dreaded the future for them in case the Federal Cause should triumph.

Now, however, the seriousness of the question was coming very near to Dorothea. Right in the family was the possibility of a cruel separation. Whatever Mrs. Stewart might have done, and whether she had sold her servants or not, it was quite clear to Dorothea’s keen mind that she had the power to do so, and that in itself did not seem right. Mrs. Stewart might be just as thoughtful of those who were dependent upon her as was Aunt Parthenia, but she was sure there must be many throughout the South who would have no such consideration for the unfortunates over whom the law gave them absolute control.

As they swept into the drive at Crosslands, Uncle Jastrow turned in his seat and addressed his mistress.

“I on’y hopes, Ol’ Miss,” he said, referring to the mud that had accumulated on the running gear of the carriage, “that none of the fambly is gwine to see we-all comin’ into the place lookin’ like this.”

Mrs. May laughed.

“No one will blame you for the state of the roads, Uncle Jastrow,” she said.

But this did not placate the old man.

“These hosses and this cahhiage don’t look like they eveh seen a currycomb nor yet a shammy,” he grunted, and drove up to the house with the air of a martyr at the stake.

Mrs. May and Dorothea were ushered into the parlor, where they found Corinne and her mother busy counting gold pieces. On hearing the door open Mrs. Stewart hastily swept some of the stacks of coin into her bag, whereat Corinne was moved to protest.

“Now I’ll have to count them all over again, and it’s only Aunt ’Thenia and Dorothea.”

Both greeted their visitors with great warmth, Corinne inquiring for Harriot, (left at home with a visiting governess, much to that young lady’s disgust,) and her mother rejoicing at the timelessness of the visit.

“For really, my dear ’Thenia, I need your advice,” she began at once though she was never known to follow any advice, no matter from what source. “I have just learned how heavy gold is.”

“I didn’t know there was so much gold left in the Confederacy,” Mrs. May returned, striving to speak lightly. The sight of the yellow coins seemed to confirm all that the colored boy, Sam, had said.

Mrs. Stewart wagged her head sagely.

“It is not easy to make people produce it,” she remarked, “but if you have something they want very much and won’t sell for anything else—well, you see?” She pointed proudly to the table.

“And have you been selling your diamonds?” Mrs. May asked. She did not wish her sister-in-law to know that she had heard a tale she was loath to believe.

“Oh, no,” was the ready answer. “I’ve just disposed of two of the boys, Casper and Manders.” She spoke so indifferently that Dorothea looked at her in amazement. She had always thought her a silly woman, but she could not believe her so utterly heartless.

“I thought Charles had encouraged Manders to marry,” Mrs. May remarked calmly, concealing her disapproval. “But I suppose you sold his wife with him?”

Mrs. Stewart pushed back her chair fretfully.

“My dear Parthenia, these are not times when one may consult one’s feelings,” she replied irritably. “I must do the best I can. The man who bought Manders would not have his wife, and so there was nothing possible but to separate them. Charles has sent me word to realize on anything I can and not to take payment in Confederate money. If I can’t get coin I am to take State notes. And I was feeling mighty proud of my bargain till you came along.”

“But now that I am here,” Mrs. May urged, “I hope I can persuade you to give this gentleman back his money and tell him you have decided not to separate families. You know it has never been the custom in our family.”

“No—nor have civil wars been the custom—nor have any of the family had to face going to live in a strange country!” Mrs. Stewart burst out wrathfully. “Here it wouldn’t so much matter if we were poor, because every one else will be poor too, and they all know we’re Mays. But how do I know the Mexicans ever heard of Wilkes County? I am simply obliged to have money enough to keep up appearances. And besides, what’s the odds what I do with these negroes of ours? The war will set them free sooner or later. It’s a sort of a Yankee trick, but I think I’m rather clever to find any one to buy them. I didn’t believe I could, till I heard of this man from Macon.”

The cleverness of the bargain was not all that was interesting Mrs. May.

“Suppose, as you say, the war ends and the slaves are freed,” she said genially; “don’t you realize that families once separated may never meet again?”

“When they’re free they’ll have to learn to look out for themselves. And if I wanted to, I couldn’t get the boys back now,” Mrs. Stewart replied ungraciously. “This man who bought them wasn’t a gentleman, you understand. He bought them because they were good mechanics. Moreover, I don’t know where he has sent them. It may be he is going to sell their labor.”

“Cora!” Mrs. May cried, “I am certain Charles never meant you to dispose of your people.”

“Don’t let’s argue it, Parthenia,” Mrs. Stewart retorted, summoning all her dignity to bolster an uneasy conscience. “I must be the judge of what my husband desires, and whatever I may feel personally I put aside when I remember my daughter. I was given full power to do as I thought best and I have used it.”

Mrs. May rose to leave.

“I came here,” she said, with studied restraint, “because of what I believed to be a mistake. Now I am afraid to ask you another question—but can it be that you propose to separate Aunt Dilsey and Sam?”

Mrs. Stewart had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed.

“I am hoping to sell Aunt Dilsey with Sam,” she answered. “You know she’s getting on in years—but for all that she’s a wonderful cook, and I told the man from Macon—”

A spot of red appeared in each of Mrs. May’s cheeks.

“That is all I wished to know,” she interrupted abruptly. “Aunt Dilsey and Sam are at my house, and there they shall stay. Henry, at least, would never forgive me the shame of it if that faithful old soul was sold to strangers in her advanced age. We can ill-afford to take more mouths to feed, not to speak of paying for them; but let me know the price you propose to ask and I will see that the money reaches you.”

Mrs. Stewart beamed upon her sister-in-law.

“Now that’s just like you, ’Thenia!” she exclaimed delightedly. “It relieves my mind of all anxiety. Charles will never worry about Aunt Dilsey if she is to be kept in the family. And you needn’t bother about the money till it’s convenient. In fact I’ve rather more gold in the house now than I know what to do with. Good-by, my dear. I’m so glad you came. I confess I was a little uneasy about Aunt Dilsey and Sam, but now my mind is quite at ease. Good-by, Dorothea, honey.”

Back in the carriage again and outside the place Mrs. May tried to make excuses for her sister-in-law, but her own indignation could hardly be hidden.

“I did not believe it possible that one of our family could do such a thing,” she burst out finally.

“But don’t you think, Aunt Parthenia,” Dorothea said, “it would be much better if no one had the power to buy and sell human beings?”

Her aunt looked at her a moment intently, then she nodded her head a little sadly.

“Perhaps so, Dorothea,” she answered half to herself. “Perhaps so.” And they drove back the rest of the way in silence.