  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 shore; 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. "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 muffled 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' passed 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, Marse 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 snatched 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 bumped 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 nachelly 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 passed 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, Marse 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 passages through greater crises, was even and gentle. She laid her hand upon the child. "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, Marse 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' mass 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 passin' I'd git him to perform it his way. Me bein' Baptis' I didn't have no nigger 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 shore 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 citificates '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 nobody 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 niggers. 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 flustered. 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 passin'. "But who ever inticed her to stop or to look or listen? Nobody, 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. |
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