MAMMY MARIA
That Monday was a memorable day for Helen Conway. She went to the mill with less bitterness than ever before—the sting of it all was gone—for she felt that she was helpless to the fate that was hers—that she was powerless in the hands of Richard Travis:
“I will come for you Monday night. I will take you away from here. You shall belong to me forever—My Queen!”
These words had rung in her ears all Saturday night, when, after coming home, she had found her father fallen by the wayside.
In the night she had lain awake and wondered. She did not know where she was going—she did not care. She did not even blush at the thought of it. She was hardened, steeled. She knew not whether it meant wife or mistress. She knew only that, as she supposed, God had placed upon her more than she could bear.
“If my life is wrecked,” she said as she lay awake that Sunday night—“God himself will do it. Who took my mother before I knew her influence? Who made me as I am and gave me poverty with this fatal beauty—poverty and a drunken father and this terrible temptation?”
“Oh, if I only had her, Mammy—negro that she is.”
Lily was asleep with one arm around her sister's neck.
“What will become of Lily, in the mill, too?” She bent and kissed her, and she saw that the little one, though asleep, had tears in her own eyes.
Young as she was, Helen's mind was maturer than might have been supposed. And the problem which confronted her she saw very clearly, although she was unable to solve it. The problem was not new, indeed, it has been Despair's conundrum since the world began: Whose fault that my life has been as it is? In her despair, doubting, she cried:
“Is there really a God, as Mammy Maria told me? Does He interpose in our lives, or are we rushed along by the great moral and physical laws, which govern the universe; and if by chance we fail to harmonize with them, be crushed for our ignorance—our ignorance which is not of our own making?”
“By chance—by chance,” she repeated, “but if there be great fixed laws, how can there be any—chance?”
The thought was hopeless. She turned in her despair and hid her face. And then out of the darkness came the strong fine face of Clay Westmore—and his words: “We must all work—it is life's badge of nobility.”
How clearly and calmly they came to her. And then her heart fluttered. Suppose Clay loved her—suppose this was her solution? He had never pressed his love on her. Did he think a woman could be loved that way—scientifically—as coal and iron are discovered?
She finally slept, her arms around her little sister. But the last recollection she had was Clay's fine face smiling at her through the darkness and saying: “We must all work—it is life's badge of nobility.”
It was Monday morning, and she would take Lily with her to the mill; for the child's work at the spinning frames was to begin that day. There was no alternative. Again the great unknown law rushed her along. Her father had signed them both, and in a few days their home would be sold.
They were late at the mill, but the little one, as she trudged along by the side of her sister, was happier than she had been since her old nurse had left. It was great fun for her, this going to the mill with her big sister.
The mill had been throbbing and humming long before they reached it. Helen turned Lily over to the floor manager, after kissing her good-bye, and bade her do as she was told. Twice again she kissed her, and then with a sob hurried away to her own room.
Travis was awaiting her in the hall. She turned pale and then crimson when she saw him. And yet, when she ventured to look at him as she was passing, she was stopped with the change which lay on his face. It was a sad smile he gave her, sad but determined. And in the courtly bow was such a look of tenderness that with fluttering heart and a strange new feeling of upliftedness—a confidence in him for the first time, she stopped and gave him her hand with a grateful smile. It was a simple act and so pretty that the sadness went from Travis' face as he said:
“I was not going to stop you—this is kind of you. Saturday, I thought you feared me.”
“Yes,” she smiled, “but not now—not when you look like that.”
“Have I changed so much since then?” and he looked at her curiously.
“There is something in your face I never saw before. It made me stop.”
“I am glad it was there, then,” he said simply, “for I wished you to stop, though I did not want to say so.”
“Saturday you would have said so,” she replied with simple frankness.
He came closer to her with equal frankness, and yet with a tenderness which thrilled her he said:
“Perhaps I was not so sure Saturday of many things that I am positive of to-day.”
“Of what?” she asked flushing.
He smiled again, but it was not the old smile which had set her to trembling with a flurry of doubt and shame. It was the smile of respect. Then it left him, and in its stead flashed instantly the old conquering light when he said:
“To-night, you know, you will be mine!”
The change of it all, the shock of it, numbed her. She tried to smile, but it was the lifeless curl of her lips instead—and the look she gave him—of resignation, of acquiescence, of despair—he had seen it once before, in the beautiful eyes of the first young doe that fell to his rifle. She was not dead when he bounded to the spot where she lay—and she gave him that look.
Edward Conway watched his two daughters go out of the gate on their way to the mill, sitting with his feet propped up, and drunker than he had been for weeks. But indistinct as things were, the poignancy of it went through him, and he groaned. In a dazed sort of way he knew it was the last of all his dreams of respectability, that from now on there was nothing for him and his but degradation and a lower place in life. To do him justice, he did not care so much for himself; already he felt that he himself was doomed, that he could never expect to shake off the terrible habit which had grown to be part of his life,—unless, he thought, unless, as the Bishop had said—by the blow of God. He paled to think what that might mean. God had so many ways of striking blows unknown to man. But for his daughters—he loved them, drunkard though he was. He was proud of their breeding, their beauty, their name. If he could only go and give them a chance—if the blow would only fall and take him!
The sun was warm. He grew sleepy. He remembered afterwards that he fell out of his chair and that he could not arise.... It was a nice place to sleep anyway.... A staggering hound, with scurviness and sores, came up the steps, then on the porch, and licked his face....
When he awoke some one was bathing his face with cold water from the spring. He was perfectly sober and he knew it was nearly noon. Then he heard the person say: “I guess you are all right now, Marse Ned, an' I'm thinkin' it's the last drink you'll ever take outen that jug.”
His astonishment in recognizing that the voice was the voice of Mammy Maria did not keep him from looking up regretfully at sight of the precious broken jug and the strong odor of whiskey pervading the air.
How delightful the odor was!
He sat up amazed, blinking stupidly.
“Aunt Maria—in heaven's name—where?”
“Never mind, Marse Ned—jes' you git into the buggy now an' I'll take you home. You see, I've moved everything this mohnin' whilst you slept. The last load is gone to our new home.”
“What?” he exclaimed—“where?” He looked around—the home was empty.
“I thort it time to wake you up,” she went on, “an' besides I wanter talk to you about my babies.
“You'll onderstan' all that when you see the home I've bought for us”—she said simply. “We're gwine to it now. Git in the buggy”—and she helped him to arise.
Then Edward Conway guessed, and he was silent, and without a word the old woman drove him out of the dilapidated gate of Millwood toward the town.
“Mammy,” he began as if he were a boy again—“Mammy,” and then he burst into tears.
“Don't cry, chile,” said the old woman—“it's all behind us now. I saved the money years ago, when we all wus flush—an' you gave me so much when you had an' wus so kind to me, Marse Ned. I saved it. We're gwine to reform now an' quit drinkin'. We'se gwine to remove to another spot in the garden of the Lord, but the Lord is gwine with us an' He is the tower of strength—the tower of strength to them that trust Him—Amen. But I must have my babies—that's part of the barg'in. No mill for them—oh, Marse Ned, to think that whilst I was off, fixin' our home so nice to s'prize you all—wuckin' my fingers off to git the home ready—you let them devils get my babies! Git up heah”—and she rapped the horse down the back with the lines. “Hurry up—I'm gwine after 'em es soon es I git home.”
Conway could only bow his head and weep.
It was nearly noon when a large coal-black woman, her head tied up with an immaculately white handkerchief, with a white apron to match over her new calico gown, walked into the mill door. She passed through Kingsley's office, without giving him the courtesy of a nod, holding her head high and looking straight before her. A black thunder-cloud of indignation sat upon her brow, and her large black eyes were lit up with a sarcastic light.
Before Kingsley could collect his thoughts she had passed into the big door of the main room, amid the whirl and hum of the machinery, and walking straight to one of the spinning frames, she stooped and gathered into her arms the beautiful, fair-skinned little girl who was trying in vain to learn the tiresome lesson of piecing the ever-breaking threads of the bewildering, whirling bobbins.
The child was taken so by surprise that she screamed in fright—not being able to hear the footfall or the voice of her who had so suddenly folded her in her arms and showered kisses on her face and hair. Then, seeing the face, she shouted:
“It's Mammy Maria—oh, it's my mammy!” and she threw her arms around the old woman's neck and clung there.
“Mammy's baby—did you think old Mammy dun run off an' lef' her baby?”
But Lily could only sob for joy.
Then the floor manager came hurriedly over—for the entire force of the mill had ceased to work, gazing at the strange scene. In vain he gesticulated his protests—the big fat colored woman walked proudly past him with Lily in her arms.
In Kingsley's office she stopped to get Lily's bonnet, while the little girl still clung to her neck, sobbing.
Kingsley stood taking in the scene in astonishment. He adjusted his eye glasses several times, lilting them with the most pronounced sarcastic lilt of which he was capable.
He stepped around and around the desk in agitated briskness.
He cleared his throat and jerked his pant legs up and down. And all the time the fat old woman stood looking at him, with the thunder-cloud on her brow and unexpressed scorn struggling for speech in her eyes.
“Ah-hem—ah-ha—Aunt Maria” for Kingsley had caught on to the better class of Southern ways—“inform me—ah, what does all this mean?”
The old woman drew herself up proudly and replied with freezing politeness:
“I beg yo' pardon, sah—but I was not awares that I had any nephew in the mill, or was related to anybody in here, sah. I hav'nt my visitin' cyard with me, but if I had 'em heah you'd find my entitlements, on readin', was somethin' lak this: Miss Maria Conway, of Zion!”
Kingsley flushed, rebuked. Then he adjusted his glasses again with agitated nervous attempts at a lilt. Then he struck his level and fell back on his natural instinct, unmixed, with attempts at being what he was not:
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Conway”—
“Git my entitlements right, please sah. I'm the only old maid lady of color you ever seed or ever will see again. Niggahs, these days, lak birds, all git 'em a mate some way—but I'm Miss Conway of Zion.”
“Ah, beg pardon, Miss Conway—Miss Conway of Zion. And where, pray, is that city, Miss Conway? I may have to have an officer communicate with you.”
“With pleasure, sah—It's a pleasure for me to he'p people find a place dey'd never find without help—no—not whilst they're a-workin' the life out of innocent tots an' babes—”
Kingsley flushed hot, angered:
“What do you mean, old woman?”
“The ole woman means,” she said, looking him steadily in the eye, “that you are dealin' in chile slavery, law or no law; that you're down heah preachin' one thing for niggahs an' practisin' another for yo' own race; that yo' hair frizzles on yo' head at tho'rt of niggah slavery, whilst all the time you are enslavin' the po' little whites that's got yo' own blood in their veins. An' now you wanter know what I come for? I come for my chile!”
Kingsley was too dumfounded to speak. In all his life never had his hypocrisy been knocked to pieces so completely.
“What does all this mean?” asked Jud Carpenter rushing hastily into the room.
“Come on baby,” said the old woman as she started toward the door. “I've got a home for us, an' whilst old mammy can take in washin' you'll not wuck yo' life out with these people.”
Jud broke in harshly: “Come, ole 'oman,—you put that child down. You've got nothin' to support her with.”
She turned on him quickly: “I've got mo' silver tied up in ole socks that the Conways give me in slavery days when they had it by the bushel, than sech as you ever seed. Got nothin'? Jus' you come over and see the little home I've got fixed up for Marse Ned an' the babies. Got nothin'? See these arms? Do you think they have forgot how to cook an' wash? Come on, baby—we'll be gwine home—Miss Helen'll come later.”
“Put her down, old woman,” said Carpenter sternly. “You can't take her—she's bound to the mill.”
“Oh, I can't?” said the old woman as she walked out with Lily—“Can't take her. Well, jes' look at me an' see. This is what I calls Zion, an' the Lam' an' the wolves had better stay right where they are,” she remarked dryly, as she walked off carrying Lily in her arms.
Down through a pretty part of the town, away from Cottontown, she led the little girl, laughing now and chatting by the old woman's side, a bird freed from a cage.
“And you'll bring sister Helen, too?” asked Lily.
“That I will, pet,—she'll be home to-night.”
“Oh, Mammy, it's so good to have you again—so good, and I thought you never would come.”
They walked away from Cottontown and past pretty houses. In a quiet street, with oaks and elms shading it, she entered a yard in which stood a pretty and nicely painted cottage. Lily clapped her hands with laughter when she found all her old things there—even her pet dolls to welcome her—all in the cunningest and quaintest room imaginable. The next room was her father's, and Mammy's room was next to hers and Helen's. She ran out only to run into her father's arms. Small as she was, she saw that he was sober. He took her on his lap and kissed her.
“My little one,” he said—“my little one”—
“Mammy,” asked the little girl as the old woman came out—“how did you get all this?”
“Been savin' it all my life, chile—all the money yo' blessed mother give me an' all I earned sence I was free. I laid it up for a rainy day an' now, bless God, it's not only rainin' but sleetin' an' cold an' snowin' besides, an' so I went to the old socks. It's you all's, an' all paid fur, an' old mammy to wait on you. I'm gwine to go after Miss Helen before the mill closes, else she'll be gwine back to Millwood, knowin' nothin' of all this surprise for her. No, sah,—nary one of yo' mother's chillun shall ever wuck in a mill.”
Conway bowed his head. Then he drew Lily to him as he knelt and said: “Oh, God help me—make me a man, make me a Conway again.”
It was his first prayer in years—the beginning of his reformation. And every reformation began with a prayer.