"Ob corse it's hard. It orter be, fer it's agin de Lawd an natur. Marse Clancy, took keer wot you do, an wot you let Missy Mara do. My 'sperience teach me a heap. S'pose I doan' know de dif'ence 'tween Unc. dar an a man like Kern? I was young an foolish once, an mar'ed Unc. kase he was good lookin den, an mo' kase he ax me. Well, I'se made de bes on it, an I'se gwine ter make de bes on it; but if de yearth crack right open heah, as like 'nuff 'twill 'fo' mawnin, I'd jump right down in de crack 'fo' I'd do it ober ag'in. You'se on de safe side ob de crack yit, so be keerful. I knows woman folks soon as I claps my eyes on dem. Miss Mara quar in her notions 'bout de Norf—she was brung up to 'em—but dere's nuff woman in my honey lam' to make a tousan ob dis yere limpsey-slimpsey one."
Clancy clinched his hands in mental distress as he listened to the hard sense and unerring judgment of the sagacious old woman.
"I'm in terrible perplexity," he said, "for there is so much truth in your words. How can I escape the consequences of my own acts? Think how Miss Ainsley stood by me in my unconsciousness! When I revived—"
"Dar now, Marse Clancy, you'se been fooled. She stood by hersef. De fac am, she didn't stan 'tall, but run like a deer, hollerin fer all she's wuth. Wen you swoonded, Missy Mara cotch you in her arms. I eben run away, an lef my honey lam' mysef, but I come back sudden, an dar she was a hol'n you head in her lap right uner a big bildin dat ud a squashed her. I drag you pass dat, an den Marse Bodine jes ordered me an Missy to go to de squar. He spoke stern an strong as if we his sogers. An Missy Mara look 'im in de eyes an say, you—dat's you, Marse Clancy—may be dead, or you may be dyin, an dat she can't leab you an she won leab you. She got de grit ob true lub, an dere'll neber be any runin away in her heart. Wot you an Marse Bodine gwine ter do 'bout sich lub as dat? 'Fo' de Lawd my honey lam' die ef you an Marse Bodine 'sist on bein so orful hon'ble. She ain't one dem kin' dat takes a husban like dey takes a breakfas kase its ready."
Clancy was so profoundly moved by what he heard that he turned away to hide his emotion. After a moment he said: "You have been true and faithful, Aun' Sheba. You won't be sorry. Please do as I have asked." And he hastened away.
"Reckon I put a spoke in dat hon'ble bizness," Aun' Sheba soliloquized. "Like 'nuff I put another in. Doan cotch me hep'n along any sich foolishness. I gibs no promise, an I'se gwine ter make my honey lam' happy spite hersef." Then she took one of her grandchildren, and soothed it to sleep.
The slow hours dragged wearily on; the majority of the white people quieted down to patient, yet fearful waiting; crying children, one after another, dropped off to sleep; parents and friends watched over them and one another, conversing in low tones or praying silently for the Divine mercy, never before felt to be so essential. The negroes were more demonstrative, and their loud prayers and singing of hymns continued without abatement or hindrance. The expressions of some were so extravagant and uncouth as to grate harshly on all natures possessing any refinement; but when such men as Mr. Birdsall exhorted or prayed, there were but few among the whites who did not listen reverently, and in their hearts acknowledge the substantial truth of the words spoken and their need of the petitions offered.
Clancy went back to his watch. Few men in the city were more troubled and perplexed than he, for he had not the calmness resulting from a definite purpose as was true of Bodine.
Unmovedly the two men remained at their posts of duty awaiting the day or what might happen before the dawn. George lay down beside his father, and soon slept from fatigue, while Mr. Houghton, now so softened and chastened, vowed to make him happy.
Ella watched her father in deep solicitude, feeling vaguely that his trouble was not caused wholly by the general reasons for distress. At last she stole to his side, and laid her head upon his shoulder. The act comforted and sustained him more than she knew at the time, for he was not a demonstrative man. He only kissed her tenderly and bade her return to her cousin, with whom she kept up a whispered and fragmentary conversation. Mrs. Willoughby sat beside her husband, her head pillowed against his breast as they waited for the day.