Chapter VIII THE WORDLESS LETTERS
Close around the little village of Deer Cove, three mountain steeps looked down in everlasting peace; two upland valleys descended to the village, and held on their fertile slopes many small farms and hamlets. The houses of men employed in the saw-mill, which had created the village, lay within a nearer circle.
Of all this district the post-office at Deer Cove was the centre. The mill belonged to the Durgan Blounts, whose summer residence lay at some distance on the one road which threaded the descending ravine to the county town of Hilyard. All substance and knowledge which came to Deer Cove was hauled up this long, winding road from the unseen town, and halted at the post-office, which was also the general store and tavern. Thither the mill-hands, and an ever-changing group of poor whites, repaired for all refreshment of body and mind.
The rush of the stream, the whirr of the mill, the sigh of the wind-swept woods, the never-silent tinkling from the herds that roam the forests—these sounds mingled always with the constant talk that went on in the post-office. Here news of the outer world met with scant attention; but things concerning the region were discussed, weighed, and measured by the standard of the place. The wealth of a housekeeper was gauged by the goods he received direct from Hilyard and further markets, and his social importance by the number of his letters. A steady correspondence proved stability of connection and character; a telegram conferred distinction.
In the post-office young Blount, or even the magnificent old General himself, would not scruple to lounge for an hour at mail time, exchanging greetings with all who came thither. Durgan came of stiffer stuff; he could not unbend. He was also conscious that, as he never received letters, and as his lost lands were here little known, it was only the reflected importance of his cousins that kept him from being reckoned a "no account" person, and suffering the natural rudeness meted out to such unfortunates. He preferred to rely upon Adam to bring him his paper and such news as the village afforded. Adam went to the post every evening for Miss Smith.
There came a week of rain. The road to Hilyard was washed away by the first storm. The mail accumulated there, and when at last it could be brought to Deer, it was still raining. Durgan's cutting was flooded. Unable to work, he had paid a visit to his cousins, and returned one evening, through a thick cloud which clothed Deer like a cerement, to find Adam in the hut by the mine, seated before a hot fire.
In the light of the dancing flame, the big black man, all his clothes and hair dripping and glistening, was indeed a strange picture. He was wholly intent upon a row of papers and letters, which from time to time he moved carefully and turned before the blaze.
"It's all right, suh. I only clean done forgot to put the ladies' lettahs in de rubber bag they give me. It's a debble of a rain to-night, suh; it soak through all I hab, and there's a powerful lot of lettahs to-night, suh; a whole week o' lettahs, Marse Neil, so there is."
Durgan looked down at a goodly assortment of mail matter—newspapers, missionary records, magazines, business letters from well-known stores. In the warmest place was a row of private letters. Adam's big hands hovered over these with awesome care.
"They's the lettahs the ladies is most perjink about, allus." Adam spoke proud of his own powers of distinction. "I'se not worked for 'em so long, suh, widout bein' able to know their 'ticlarities."
"I'm proud of you, Adam." Durgan went out into the mist again and sat on a ledge of rock.
It was still daylight, but the thick mantle of cloud was gray in its depths, toning the light to dusk. Within the circle which the mist left visible, the jeweled verdure showed all its detail as through a conclave lens.
It was the hour at which Adam's wife usually came to set Durgan's hut in order. Through the ghostly folds of cloud she now appeared like a beautiful animal, cowering yet nimble, swift and silent, frightened at the loss of all things beyond the short limit of sight, the very pressing nearness of the unknown around the known. Framed in the magnified detail of branch and bole and dewy leaves, Durgan saw her arrive and pause with involuntary stealth in the fire-glow from the door of the hut.
Eve did not see Durgan. As a dog, and especially a female dog, can worship a master, so Eve worshipped Durgan. When she fawned upon him all her attitudes were winsome, her bright eyes soft, and a gentle play of humor was in her features. Despite his studied indifference and contempt, he had never before seen an evil look upon her face, but now with malicious shrewdness she was observing her unconscious husband.
Suddenly Adam, without turning, uttered a short yell of terror.
Durgan sprang and entered with the woman.
Adam rose from his stooping position—his jaw dropped, his teeth chattering. "As I'm alive, suh, the lettahs they come open of themselves, sittin' right here before the fire; an' they was so soppin' I jest took the inside out to get it dry. As I'm alive, Marse Neil, suh; the debble's in this thing. 'Tain't nowise any person but the debble as would send ladies—very nice ladies, too—lettahs like this, with no writin' on 'em; that's the debble all right, suh, sure enough."
Durgan's gaze had fixed itself involuntarily on the sheets the man had dropped. The envelopes which had purported to hold letters of private friendship had, in truth, held blank paper.
Assured that such was the fact, however strange, Durgan sought some words which might quiet the terrified Adam and efface the circumstance from Eve's frivolous mind. He could trust Adam, when quiet enough, to obey a command of secrecy; the negress must be beguiled.
But she was too quick for him. She was now watching his eyes, reading there part of his interpretation, and with half-animal instinct, perceiving that he desired to hush the matter, thought to make common cause with him.
"You's a sure enough convic' now, Adam, chil'; an' I'd like to know who's to be s'portin' o' me when you's workin' out your time in chains. Is you so ignorant, chil', as not to know that it's a heap an' a lot wus to read these letters than the sort as has writin' all ovah?"
The negro's terrified attitude showed some relief. "I didn't know as there was a sort o' lettah that had no writin' on, honey. Is you sure o' that, honey? I thought these lettahs must be a sure enough work o' the debble."
"Sure as I'm a born nigger, there is lettahs o' that sort; an' it's hangin', or somethin' wus, to open 'em. Oh, Adam, it's a powerful hangin' crime; an' if you's cotched in this business, what'll come to me?"
The woman paused to wipe an eye, then——
"I tell you, Adam, your on'y chance o' takin' care o' me any more is nebber so much as to speak o' these lettahs down to Deer or any other place. Because no gen'leman or lady or decen' nigger would ever so much as say that there was this sort o' lettah—'tain't perlite, 'cause it's on'y the great folks, an' the rich, an' the eddicated, as gets 'em. Isn't that gospel truth, Marse Neil, suh?"
Durgan was listening, intent on laying a trap for the wife. He gave no sign.
But Adam, honest soul, too unsuspicious to wait for Durgan's corroboration, spoke with steadily returning confidence. "Sure as I'm stan'in' here, Marse Neil, suh, these lettahs opened themselves—like that yaller flower that comes open of itself in the evenin', suh; an' takin' of them out, I only had the contention, suh, o' dryin' the insides of 'em; for I can't read the sort o' lettah that's written all ovah—only the big print in the Testament; an' the min'ster that learned me, he'll tell you the same."
Eve's voice rose in the soft climax of triumph. "An' that's jest the reason, Adam, chil', that readin' o' these lettahs is hangin', an' workin' in chains, an' States prison, an' whippin'—all that jest 'cause niggers like you an' me can't read the other kind." Eve was getting beyond her depth.
"You've learned me somethin' this very hour, honey," said Adam kindly, "for I didn't know before sure enough there was this sort o' lettah; but you degogerate now, honey, for if it's hangin', it can't be work in chains, an' if they can't prove I can read other sort o' lettah, it's mighty powerful sure they can't prove I can read these. The debble himself can't prove that."
Durgan had sealing-wax with which he fastened his samples of mica for the post. He put the blank pages back in the envelopes and fastened them with his own seal. Telling Adam to explain only that the flaps had come open in wet, he dismissed him. He sat watching the negress sternly, and she grew less confident.
"Us pore slave niggers don't know nothin', Marse Neil, suh."
"How old are you?" He spoke as beginning a judicial inquiry.
"Us pore slave niggers don't know how old we is. I's gettin' an old woman—I's powerful old. I wus crawlin' out an' aroun' 'fore the 'mancipation. Ole Marse Durgan, he jest naturally licked me hisself one day when I crawled 'fore his hoss in the quarters. That's what my mammy told me. We's all Durgans—Adam's folks an' mine."
"You are no Durgan nigger. I know you. We bought you and your mother out of bad hands." Durgan spoke roughly, but in himself he said: "Alas, who was responsible for this creature, sly and soulless? Not herself or those of her race!"
"Have you seen letters with no writing on them before?"
"Why should a pore nigger know anythin' 'bout such lettahs? If you'll tell me how God A'mighty made the first nigger, I'll tell you as well why these ladies gets lettahs stuffed like that, an' no sooner—an' that's gospel truth, Marse Neil, suh. I's got nothin' to do with white folks' lettahs."
He was sure now that she knew no more than what she had just seen, and had drawn no inference.
She gave way to tears, realizing that he did not approve of the address with which she had managed Adam.
"Marse Neil, Adam's a powerful low down nigger, Adam is. He's a no account darkie, is Adam. You know yourself, suh, how he laid on to me t'other night."
"If he had let you go off with a thieving yellow coon like that other nigger, you might say Adam was unkind—kindest thing he could do to beat you!"
She was so pretty she could not believe any man would really side with her husband against her. "Oh, yes, Marse Neil, suh; I don't go for to say as a darkie shouldn't beat his wife—any decen' Durgan nigger would, suh; but the thing that's low down, an' dreffle mean, an' no account 'bout Adam is that he don't know when to stop. Lickin'—that's all right, suh; but when a nigger goes on so long, an' me yellin' on him all the time—oh, Adam, he's a low down feller an' dreffle mean."
"You did more yelling than he did beating. He was crying all the time. I don't believe he hurt you—but go on."
Her tears were unfeigned: she cared only to regain Durgan's good-will.
"Go on with what, suh?"
"With what you were telling me."
There had certainly been no sequence discernible.
"Well, marsa, a poor girl's like me don't go for to tell lies for nothin'. Nex' time Adam holds a stick over me, I's got the States prison to hold over him. An' you's mistaken, marsa, honey, in sayin' as he didn't maul me black an' blue, for he did, suh—not that it wasn't right an' just this time, as you say so, marsa; but for nex' time I mus' have a way for to 'scuse myself to him. So you won't go for to tell him it isn't hangin', will you, marsa, honey, suh?"
The softness and assumed penitence of the low wail with which she ended made Durgan laugh aloud. "Look here. Look me straight in the face!"
She could do that very well, raising her soft, doe-like eyes to his, then fringing them with her lashes as an accomplished beauty might. Durgan was so angry with her on Adam's account, that he forgot that his first object was to secure her silence.
"You've got a good husband and a good home. If you ar'n't good to Adam after this, I'll despise you. Do you understand?"
"Don't speak to me so sharp, marsa." There was already a little edge of malice in the velvet of her voice.
"Now, about these letters—if I catch you ever speaking of them again, I'll tell Adam you've lied to him, and why. I'll tell him all about you, and he'll never trust you again. Do you understand?"
"An' if I don't tell nothin' you ain't disposed on, Marse Neil, honey?"
"Then I'll be kind to you, and let Adam think you're better than you are."
But the negress, turning to her work in the hut, no longer moved about him with liquid eyes and joyful steps, as a happy spaniel does. Beneath her calmer demeanor he saw the shade of sullenness, and still heard the edge of malice in her voice.
"I have been a fool," thought he. "She would have managed better in my place." Then he dismissed her from his thoughts.