There was one living thing at this little riverside inn—a white man who had a store opposite, and oh, how drunk he was! Hot as it was, Molly kept up a fire of pine knots. There was neither lamp nor candle in that deserted house. The drunken man reeled over now and then, lantern in hand; he would stand with his idiotic, drunken glare, or go solemnly staggering round us, but always bowing in his politeness. He nearly fell over us, but I sprang out of his way as he asked, “Well, madam, what can I do for you?”
Shall I ever forget the headache of that night and the fright? My temples throbbed with dumb misery. I sat upon a chair, Molly on the floor, with her head resting against my chair. She was as near as she could get to me, and I kept my hand on her. “Missis,” said she, “now I do believe you are scared, scared of that poor, drunken thing. If he was sober I could whip him in a fair fight, and drunk as he is I kin throw him over the banister, ef he so much as teches you. I don’t value him a button!”
Taking heart from such brave words I laughed. It seemed an eternity, but the carriage came by ten o’clock, and then, with the coachman as our sole protector, we poor women drove eight miles or more over a carriage road, through long lanes, swamps of pitchy darkness, with plantations on every side.
The house, as we drew near, looked like a graveyard in a nightmare, so vague and phantom-like were its outlines.
I found my mother ill in bed, feeble still, but better than I hoped to see her. “I knew you would come,” was her greeting, with outstretched hands. Then I went to bed in that silent house, a house of the dead it seemed. I supposed I was not to see my sister until the next day. But she came in some time after I had gone to bed. She kissed me quietly, without a tear. She was thin and pale, but her voice was calm and kind.
As she lifted the candle over her head, to show me something on the wall, I saw that her pretty brown hair was white. It was awfully hard not to burst out into violent weeping. She looked so sweet, and yet so utterly broken-hearted. But as she was without emotion, apparently, it would not become me to upset her by my tears.
Next day, at noon, Hetty, mother’s old maid, brought my breakfast to my bedside. Such a breakfast it was! Delmonico could do no better. “It is ever so late, I know,” to which Hetty replied: “Yes, we would not let Molly wake you.” “What a splendid cook you have here.” “My daughter, Tenah, is Miss Sally’s cook. She’s well enough as times go, but when our Miss Mary comes to see us I does it myself,” and she courtesied down to the floor. “Bless your old soul,” I cried, and she rushed over and gave me a good hug.
She is my mother’s factotum; has been her maid since she was six years old, when she was bought from a Virginia speculator along with her own mother and all her brothers and sisters. She has been pampered until she is a rare old tyrant at times. She can do everything better than any one else, and my mother leans on her heavily. Hetty is Dick’s wife; Dick is the butler. They have over a dozen children and take life very easily.
Sally came in before I was out of bed, and began at once in the same stony way, pale and cold as ice, to tell me of the death of her children. It had happened not two weeks before. Her eyes were utterly without life; no expression whatever, and in a composed and sad sort of manner she told the tale as if it were something she had read and wanted me to hear: