Nothing out of the ordinary happened until ten o’clock, when I saw several old men and women, those high in the councils of the church, looking and pointing down the road toward Twelve-Mile creek. Going near, so that I could hear, I learned that an old sister had spied a covered wagon, and, as I approached, she was saying: “Dat sho’ is Arabella Simpkins, and her top wagin, fur I knows dat ole yaller mule.”
“Sister Blue,” said Parson Honeycutt, “I’m ’clined to b’lieve dat you is kerrect in yo’ diagnosis uv de case, fur dat looks mighty lak Miss Simpkins on de front seat.”
“I’s sho’ uv it now,” added Sister Blue, “fur dat’s Cæsar, her ole man, drivin’; I knows his derby hat. Yes, sir, an’ dere somefin’ on Arry’s mind. We sho’ is gwine to hear somefin’ drap to-day.”
And so it proved.
Arabella was on the way. She and Cæsar came driving a sorrel mule, whose mane and tail needed trimming.
A chill passed over the crowd when it became generally known that the notorious Arabella was arriving. There was not a negro present who would not have given all he possessed to have been at home. But every one was too superstitious to run away; that would have brought bad luck. Therefore, with a kind of fear that produces confidence and brings hope the unhappy negroes collected about Arabella and offered their services, but with the air of a judge, who had the power to sentence to prison or death the entire crowd, she refused all proffers of help. The mule unhitched and tied to a dogwood sprout she went to the harbor and took a seat half way down the middle pew. Every person craned slyly his neck to see her. The prophetess sat, with her arms folded across her lap, silent and dignified. Cæsar, who had escorted her in, seemed to be absorbed in some profound thought. No one went near the pair.
The older men of the congregation retired to the amen corner and sat like dummies waiting for the hour for the sermon to begin.
Everybody was wild with pent-up excitement. There was anxiety in every eye. Feeling, though suppressed, ran high.