Mrs. Carruth was about to reply, when Mammy’s frightened face appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, Mammy! What is it?”
Poor old Mammy! One of the child-race, she was pitifully at a loss in the face of such a situation as the present crisis. Had it been any of her white folks she would have been efficient to the last degree, carrying out the precepts of “ole Miss,” who “raised” her, remembering with marvellous accuracy each detail of that ante-bellum training, and performing each with a patience and tenderness incomprehensible to those who have never known the heart-service rendered by those old-time servitors. But, strange anomaly, though a characteristic so very marked in her race, Mammy was utterly helpless when it came to taking the initiative for Charles or herself in sickness. Then she turned to her “white folks,” and if her Miss Jinny had bidden her drink strychnine, or give it to Charles, she would have obeyed her unquestionably. Strange people that they are!
“Please, come quick, Miss Jinny! I’se powerful trebbled. Charles he sought o’ wanderin’ in his min’ and talkin’ a heap o’ foolishness.”
Without a word Mrs. Carruth hurried from the Bee-hive in Mammy’s wake, Jean, unnoticed, close behind her. As she entered the room Charles was sitting upright, talking wildly and gesticulating to some imaginary person at the foot of his bed. Mammy, true to her instincts, flung her apron over her head, and, dropping upon her knees in the middle of the floor, cried:
“He sees de hants! He sees de hants! His hours done numbered!” and followed it up with earnest petitions for Charles’ life. Mrs. Carruth knew colored people too well to waste time in expostulations. She knew that the only way to bring Mammy back to her senses was to set about doing for Charles the things which Mammy, in a more rational frame of mind, would have done herself. Hurrying to his bedside, she said to the semi-delirious old man:
“Why, Charles, did you miss me when I went to speak to Miss Jean? It is Jean you wish to see, isn’t it? Well, here she is right at the foot of the bed, but you can talk to her quite as well when you are lying down. There, that is better,” as Charles, in obedience to her gentle easing down, let her lay him back among his pillows. Mammy caught sight of the act, and it recalled her to her senses quicker than a whip lash could have done. Springing to her feet, she hurried to the bedside, and taking her mistress by both hands forced her into the chair near at hand, exclaiming under her breath:
“Bress Gawd, baby! wha’, wha’ yo’ mean by liftin’ dat heavy man?”
Mrs. Carruth had not misjudged, but she was none the less concerned for Charles who continued to ramble on to Jean, who stood at the foot of the bed. A distant clock struck one-thirty. Mammy was doing all she could to quiet Charles, while Mrs. Carruth slipped into the adjoining room to prepare some medicine for him. Jean chose that moment to hurry back to the Bee-hive. A moment later the electric drop light was flashing its message across the snow-bound garden to the darkened house beyond. There was no response. Again and again Jean turned the switch, flashing out across the snow the bright light from the Tungsten bulb, and watching eagerly for some response, but the house remained perfectly dark; and at length, in despair, she gave up signalling and went swiftly back to Mammy’s side of the cottage. Creeping softly up to the bedroom she looked in. Her mother was too much occupied with Charles to notice her return, and Mammy was placing hot water bags at the old man’s feet. From the anxious look upon her mother’s face, Jean knew that she was seriously alarmed for Charles, who was trembling and quivering with a sudden chill. Without a word she turned and sped back to the Bee-hive. Five minutes later she opened the door and slipped out into the night. The storm had nearly ceased, but the clouds, driven by a wild, bleak wind, were still scudding across the sky. There was no moon, and it would have been a brave star which dared send its cheerful gleam through that cloud rack. Upon the ground the snow lay in deep wind-driven banks, in some places higher than Jean’s head. All the world was dark, silent, awesome. Jean never paused. She had formed her plans upon the instant, and was acting upon them as promptly. A hundred feet from the cottage old Baltie’s stable loomed in the darkness, the snow upon the eastern side of it banked high as the little window over his stall. Luckily the doors were upon the southern, more protected side of the building; and after struggling and wallowing through the snow until she was nearly breathless, Jean reached them. Pausing a moment to recover her breath, she inserted the key in the lock and opened the smaller door. She was instantly greeted by a soft nicker. Baltie never slept when the footfalls, however light, of those he loved drew near.
“Baltie, Baltie, dear,” cried Jean, softly, running to the box and opening the door, switching on the light as she ran. But neither light nor darkness meant anything to Baltie. His sensitive ears bounded his world of darkness, and love did the rest. His head was in Jean’s arms in a moment.