Never, in truth, had Mary felt herself so drawn to her mother as during this trying period of her young life; and to her ineffably tender, maternal solicitude her heart made answer with an unspoken yet passionate gratitude.
And now this mother, who was always ready with a soothing word, walked by her side in silence.
And Alice,—Alice, the merry and the brave,—where was she? Why does she, contrary to her custom, hang back so far in the rear, talking to Mr. Whacker in undertones? See, she has crossed over, and is walking down the street on the other side! Has she, too, deserted me? Oh, that terrible, terrible sermon! She ran up-stairs, locked her door, and threw herself upon the lounge.
Mary was right. The same words of the preacher which had stunned her had staggered her mother and Alice. Such was the power of the pulpit in those days. To both, as they stepped from the church-door into the street, the responsibility of combating the fulminations of their pastor seemed too heavy for their shoulders.
But our plucky little Alice was only staggered, and soon rallied. She would not go to see Mary that evening, so she told me; next morning would be better.
And so the shades of evening came, and the shades of evening deepened into night; and still she came not. Is it not enough that my mother should desert me? The clock struck nine. No hope! There, the bell rang! A soft tap on her door; not Alice’s merry rub-a-dub. A young slave and sister announced the cousin. Mary sprang to her feet: “I won’t see him,” she almost screamed; “tell him that!” cried she, advancing upon her late pupil in Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” with looks so fierce and gestures so vehement as to drive her back in alarm upon the door which she had just entered with a smile.
“Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am,” stammered the Pilgrim, fumbling over the door-knob in her confused effort to escape. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell him,” added she, courtesying herself out, and shutting the door softly behind her.
“Hi!” half whispered, half thought she to herself, as she stood upon the landing, collecting her breath and her wits. “Hi, what de matter wid Miss Mary? Fore Gaud, I was afeard she was gwine to bite me, I was! What he done do, I wonder? Oh, I tell you. She done git tired o’ him a-comin’ round and a-comin’ round, and f’reverlahstin’ coughin’, and coughin’ and coughin’, same like one o’ dese here little fice-dogs what bark and bark and never tree nothin’, dough he do drive off de oder varmints dat you mought cotch; and no gal don’t like dat, be she white or black. He’s a nice gent’mun, I don’t ’spute dat; but he are powerful wizzened up, dat’s a fac’. Howsomdever, I ain’t got de heart to give him no sich message. A gent’mun is a gent’mun, for all dat, and I ain’t had no sich raisin’. Nebberdeless, I ain’t a-blamin’ Miss Mary. She tired o’ dat kind. Well, I likes ’em spry and sassy myself, I does, and I s’pose folks is folks, dough dey be diff’ent colors. Ahem! Ahem!”
She was nearing the parlor-door, and was clearing her throat for a polite paraphrase, when she saw the front door gently close.
He had heard, and was gone.