I had an inspiration. "Hannah," I said, "we have a steak for dinner. You can broil a steak and boil some potatoes and rice in a few minutes. Come, leave the tubs, run up and dress, and help me with the children. We will all go to Central Park, spend a pleasant afternoon, and get back in time for dinner."
We were a large party, and could not get off, having taken a hasty luncheon, until nearly two o'clock. But the summer afternoons were long and we had no misgivings. I had no idea of the distance, nor did I know of any route to the Park, save the horse-car and ferry on our side, a walk up Wall Street to Broadway, and the lumbering Broadway omnibus with two horses for the rest of the way. At four o'clock we arrived in sight of Central Park! A black thunder-cloud came up, and we alighted from our stage in a drenching rain. Of course we must return without seeing the Park, but to our joy we found a line of horse-cars waiting at the gate for return passengers, and dripping wet, we took shelter in one of these and were soon on our way homeward. At the end of our journey there was Theo, with umbrellas—now useless, for more thoroughly drenched we could not well have been,—and his father!—Well, his father was almost in a state of nervous prostration! Hannah's spirits thereafter were worse than ever. She lost all interest in work, and spent much of her time leaning over her area gate and gazing into the street. Once I asked her what she was looking at.
"Dat po-white-folks creeter hollerin' 'soap fat,'" she answered. "Lawd! I wonder if dat ole creeter got wife!"
We were both mystified by the street cries. One man we found was not crying: "Frank Potter," "Frank Potter," but "rags, bottles." But another cry, "Pi-ap,—Pi-ap," much perplexed us. Finally Hannah brought in a very hard, knotty, green apple, the "pi-ap" man had given her as a sample of his wares. "Dar is his 'pi-aps,'" she explained. Light broke upon my benighted intelligence. "Why, Hannah," I said, "he means pie-apples!" "Good Gawd A'mighty!" she exclaimed. "Is dat de bes' dey can do!"
In August she entreated to be sent home. In vain I too entreated. I felt that this was the last straw! What could I do in this strange city with no faithful person to leave occasionally with the children? I offered anything—everything—larger liberty, more wages.
Hannah said solemnly, "You knows I likes you and de chillern—but I can't stay. I'se feared to stay! I can't live in no place where folks plays de piano all day Sunday. I'se boun' to git out. Somp'n gwine to happen in dis Gawd-forsaken place." Then after a thoughtful pause she added pensively: "De watermillions is ripe at home! I done wrote to Jim to git me one—a big one—and put it in a tub o' cole water erginst I come."
With Hannah I lost the last link that bound me to the old Virginia of my childhood, my last acquaintance with the kindly old-time negro and the dialect so expressive, so characteristic.
I filled her place with an Irish woman who served me faithfully for many years, and was wont to commiserate me for all I had suffered "with that nayger in the house." Her scorn of the negro knew no bounds. She never knew how deeply I mourned my loss.
The pain of parting from friends, the doubt of the future, the dreams of my early home, filled my heart with anguish; but I had but one consuming desire—to sustain and strengthen the dear one who had fought so many battles, and was now confronted with the stern struggle for existence. To be cheerful for his sake, to press strong hands over my own breaking heart—this was the task I set for myself.