But when the morning came and the sun rose, and the blue sky smiled, and all the earth seemed to be vibrant with some high-keyed summoning note--how difficult then it was to be sad! How far away indeed seemed the once-familiar scenes! How hard it was not to hope, here in this land of self-reliance and belief! It was the horror of Mary Ellen's soul that when this sun shone she could not be sad. This land, this crude, forbidding, fascinating land--what was there about it that swept her along against her will?

CHAPTER XXI

THE ADVICE OF AUNT LUCY

One day Aunt Lucy, missing Quarterly Meeting, and eke bethinking herself of some of those aches and pains of body and forebodings of mind with which the negro is never unprovided, became mournful in her melody, and went to bed sighing and disconsolate. Mary Ellen heard her voice uplifted long and urgently, and suspecting the cause, at length went to her door.

"What is it, Aunt Lucy?" she asked kindly.

"Nothin', mam; I jess ra.s.slin' wit ther throne o' Grace er l'il bit. I don't wan' to 'sturb you-all."

"We don't want to disturb you, either, Aunt Lucy," said Mary Ellen gently.

"Tha.s.s. .h.i.t, Miss Ma'y Ellen, tha.s.s _hit_! It ain't fitten fer a ole n.i.g.g.e.r 'ooman to be prayin' erroun' whah white folks is. You kain't seem to let out good an' free; 'n ef I kain't let out good an' free, 'pears like I don't git no hol' on salvation. We all po' weak sinners, Miss Ma'y Ellen."

"Yes, I know, Lucy."

"An' does you know, Miss Ma'y Ellen, I sorter gits skeered sometimes, out yer, fer fear mer supplercashuns ain't goin' take holt o' heaven jess right. White folks has one way er prayin', but er n.i.g.g.e.r kain't pray erlone--no, mam, jess kain't pray erlone."

"I thought you were doing pretty well, Lucy."

"Ya.s.s'm, pretty well, but not nothin' like hit useter be back in ole Vehginny, when 'bout er hunderd n.i.g.g.e.rs git to prayin' all to onct.

Tha.s.s whut goin' to fotch the powah on er suffrin' human soul--yes, ma'm!"

"Now, Aunt Lucy," said Mary Ellen sagely, "there isn't anything wrong with your soul at all. You're as good an old thing as ever breathed, I'm sure of that, and the Lord will reward you if he ever does any one, white or black."

"Does you think that, honey?"

"Indeed I do."

"Well, sometimes I thinks the Lord ain' goin' to fergive me fer all ther devilment I done when I was l'il. You know, Miss Ma'y Ellen, hit take a life er prayer to wipe out ouah transgresshuns. Now, how kin I pray, not to say _pray_, out yer, in this yer lan'? They ain't a chu'ch in a hunderd mile o' yer, so fer's I kin tell, an' they shoh'ly ain't no chu'ch fer cullud folks. Law me, Miss Ma'y Ellen, they ain't ary nother n.i.g.g.e.r out yer nowheres, an' you don' know how lonesome I does git!

Seems to me like, ef I c'd jess know er sengle n.i.g.g.e.r, so'st we c'd meet onct in er while, an' so'st we c'd jess kneel down togetheh an' pray comfer'ble like, same's ef 'twus back in ole Vehginny--why, Miss Ma'y Ellen, I'd be the happiest ole 'ooman ever you did see. Mighty bad sort o' feelin', when a pusson ain't right sh.o.r.e 'bout they soul. An' when I has to pray erlone, I kain't never be right sh.o.r.e!"

Mary Ellen rose and went to her room, returning with her guitar. She seated herself upon the side of the bed near Aunt Lucy--an act which would have been impossible of belief back in old Virginia--and touched a few low chords. "Listen, Aunt Lucy," she said; "I will play and you may sing. That will make you feel better, I think."

It was only from a perfect understanding of the negro character that this proposal could come, and only a perfect dignity could carry it out with grace; yet there, beneath the floor of the wide prairie sea, these strange exercises were carried on, the low throbbing of the strings according with the quavering minors of the old-time hymns, until Aunt Lucy wiped her eyes and smiled.

"Thank yer. Miss Ma'y' Ellen," she said; "thank yer a thousand times.

You shoh'ly does know how toe comfort folks mighty well, even a pore ole n.i.g.g.e.r. Law bless yer, honey, whut c'd I do without yer, me out yer all erlone? Seems like the Lord done gone 'way fur off, 'n I kain't fotch him noways; but when white folks like Miss Ma'y Ellen Beecham come set down right side o' me an' sing wif me, den I know ther Lord, he standin'

by listenin'. Yas'm, he shoh'ly goin' to incline his eah!"

Women are women. There is no synonym. Women, white and white, black and black, or, if need be, white and black, have sympathies and understandings and revealings which they never carry to the opposite s.e.x.

It is likely that no man ever explored the last intricacy of that sweet and wondrous maze, a woman's heart; yet the woman who marries, and who has with her a husband, sets herself for the time outside the circle of all other husbandless women who may be about her. Thus it was that--without any loss of self-respect upon the one side, or any forgetfulness upon the other of that immovable line between black and white which had been part of the immemorial creed of both--Mary Ellen and Aunt Lucy, being companionless, sometimes drifted together in the way of things.

On the morning following Aunt Lucy's devotional exercises that good soul seemed to be altogether happy and contented, and without any doubts as to her future welfare. She busied herself with the preparation of the food for the chickens, meantime half unconsciously humming a song in reminiscent minor. "Custard pie--custard pie," she sang, softly, yet unctuously, as she stirred and mingled the materials before her; "custard pie--_custard_ pie. Hope ter eat hit twell I die--twell I die."

Mary Ellen was out in the open air, bonnetless and all a-blow. It was a glorious, sunny day, the air charged with some essence of vital stimulus.

Tall and shapely, radiant, not yet twenty-three years of age, and mistress of earth's best blessing, perfect health--how could Mary Ellen be sad? All the earth and sky, and the little twittering ground birds, and the bustling fowls, forbade it. The very stir of life was everywhere. She walked, but trod as steps the wild deer, lightly, with confidence, high-headed.

"Chick-chick-chick-chickee!" called Mary Ellen, bending over the fence of the chicken yard, and noting with pleasure the hurrying, clacking throng of fowls that answered and swarmed about her. "Chick, chick, chick!"

"I'll be thah t'reckly wif ther feed, Miss Ma'y Ellen," called out Aunt Lucy from the kitchen. And presently she emerged and joined her mistress at the corral.

"Aunt Lucy," said Mary Ellen, "do you suppose we could ever raise a garden?"

"Whut's dat, chile--raise er gyarden? Kain't raise no gyarden out yer, noways."

"I was just thinking may be we could have a garden, just a little one, next year."

"Hit don' never rain ernuf, chile, in this yer country."

"I know, but couldn't we use the water from the well? The windmill is always pumping it up, and it only runs to waste. I was thinking, if we had a few peas, or beans, or things like that, you know--"

"Uh-huh!"

"And do you suppose a rose bush would grow--a real rose bush, over by the side of the house?"

"Law, no, chile, whut you talkin' 'bout? Nothin' hain't goin' to grow yer, 'less'n hit's a little broom cohn, er some o' that alfalafew, er that soht er things. Few beans might, ef we wortered 'em. My lan!" with a sudden interest, as she grasped the thought, "whut could I git fer right fraish beans, real string beans, I does wondeh! Sakes, ef I c'd hev string beans an' apple pies, I shoh'ly c'd make er foh'tune, right quick. Why, they tellin' me, some folks over ontoe that ther Smoky River, las' fall, they gethered 'bout hate er peck o' sour green crabapples, an' they trade hate o' them ornery things off fer a beef critter--'deed they did. String beans--why, law, chile!"

"We'll have to think about this garden question some day," said Mary Ellen. She leaned against the corral post, looking out over the wide expanse of the prairie round about. "Are those our antelope out there, Lucy?" she asked, pointing out with care the few tiny objects, thin and knifelike, crowned with short black forking tips, which showed up against the sky line on a distant ridge. "I think they must be. I haven't noticed them for quite a while."

"Ya.s.s'm," said Aunt Lucy, after a judicial look. "Them blame l'il goats.

Tha.s.s um. I wish't they all wuzn't so mighty peart an' knowin' all ther time, so'st Majah Buford he c'd git one o' them now an' then fer to eat.

Antelope tennerline is shoh'ly mighty fine, briled. Now, ef we jess had a few sweet 'taters. But, law! whut am I sayin'?"

"Yes," said Mary Ellen practically. "We haven't the antelope yet."

"I 'member mighty well how Cap'n Franklin sent us down er quarter o'

an'lope," said Aunt Lucy. "Mighty fine meat, hit wuz. An' to think, me a brilin' a piece o' hit fer a low-down white trash cow-driver whut come yer to eat! Him a-sayin' he'd ruther hev chicken, cause he wuz raised on an'lope! Whut kin' o' talk wuz thet? He talk like an'lope mighty common. Takes Cap'n Franklin toe git ole Mr. An'lope, though.

"Er--Miss Ma'y Ellen," began Aunt Lucy presently, and apparently with a certain reservation.

"Yes?"

Aunt Lucy came over and sat down upon a sod heap, resting her chin upon her hand and looking fixedly at the girl, who still stood leaning against the post.

"Er--Miss Ma'y Ellen--" she began again.

"Yes. What is it, Lucy?"

"Does you know--?"

"Do I know what?"

"Does you know who's jess erbout ther fines' and likelies' man whut lives in all these yer pahts erroun' yer?"