The Bishop of Cottontown: A Story of the Southern Cotton Mills
knew it was the last of all his dreams of respectability, that from
now on there was nothing for him and his but degradation and a lower
place in life. To do him justice, he did not care so much for
himself; already he felt that he himself was doomed, that he could
never expect to shake off the terrible habit which had grown to be
part of his life,--unless, he thought, unless, as the Bishop had
said--by the blow of God. He paled to think what that might mean. God
had so many ways of striking blows unknown to man. But for his
daughters--he loved them, drunkard though he was. He was proud of
their breeding, their beauty, their name. If he could only go and
give them a chance--if the blow would only fall and take him!
The sun was warm. He grew sleepy. He remembered afterwards that he
fell out of his chair and that he could not arise.... It was a nice
place to sleep anyway.... A staggering hound, with scurviness and
sores, came up the steps, then on the porch, and licked his face....
When he awoke some one was bathing his face with cold water from the
spring. He was perfectly sober and he knew it was nearly noon. Then
he heard the person say: "I guess you are all right now, Marse Ned,
an' I'm thinkin' it's the last drink you'll ever take outen that
jug."
His astonishment in recognizing that the voice was the voice of Mammy
Maria did not keep him from looking up regretfully at sight of the
precious broken jug and the strong odor of whiskey pervading the air.
How delightful the odor was!
He sat up amazed, blinking stupidly.
"Aunt Maria--in heaven's name--where?"
"Never mind, Marse Ned--jes' you git into the buggy now an' I'll take
you home. You see, I've moved everything this mohnin' whilst you
slept. The last load is gone to our new home."
"What?" he exclaimed--"where?" He looked around--the home was empty.
"I thort it time to wake you up," she went on, "an' besides I wanter
talk to you about my babies.
"You'll onderstan' all that when you see the home I've bought for
us"--she said simply. "We're gwine to it now. Git in the buggy"--and
she helped him to arise.
Then Edward Conway guessed, and he was silent, and without a word the
old woman drove him out of the dilapidated gate of Millwood toward
the town.
"Mammy," he began as if he were a boy again--"Mammy," and then he
burst into tears.
"Don't cry, chile," said the old woman--"it's all behind us now. I
saved the money years ago, when we all wus flush--an' you gave me so
much when you had an' wus so kind to me, Marse Ned. I saved it. We're
gwine to reform now an' quit drinkin'. We'se gwine to remove to
another spot in the garden of the Lord, but the Lord is gwine with us
an' He is the tower of strength--the tower of strength to them that
trust Him--Amen. But I must have my babies--that's part of the
barg'in. No mill for them--oh, Marse Ned, to think that whilst I was
off, fixin' our home so nice to s'prize you all--wuckin' my fingers
off to git the home ready--you let them devils get my babies! Git up
heah"--and she rapped the horse down the back with the lines. "Hurry
up--I'm gwine after 'em es soon es I git home."
Conway could only bow his head and weep.
It was nearly noon when a large coal-black woman, her head tied up
with an immaculately white handkerchief, with a white apron to match
over her new calico gown, walked into the mill door. She passed
through Kingsley's office, without giving him the courtesy of a nod,
holding her head high and looking straight before her. A black
thunder-cloud of indignation sat upon her brow, and her large black
eyes were lit up with a sarcastic light.
Before Kingsley could collect his thoughts she had passed into the
big door of the main room, amid the whirl and hum of the machinery,
and walking straight to one of the spinning frames, she stooped and
gathered into her arms the beautiful, fair-skinned little girl who
was trying in vain to learn the tiresome lesson of piecing the
ever-breaking threads of the bewildering, whirling bobbins.
The child was taken so by surprise that she screamed in fright--not
being able to hear the footfall or the voice of her who had so
suddenly folded her in her arms and showered kisses on her face and
hair. Then, seeing the face, she shouted:
"It's Mammy Maria--oh, it's my mammy!" and she threw her arms around
the old woman's neck and clung there.
"Mammy's baby--did you think old Mammy dun run off an' lef' her
baby?"
But Lily could only sob for joy.
Then the floor manager came hurriedly over--for the entire force of
the mill had ceased to work, gazing at the strange scene. In vain he
gesticulated his protests--the big fat colored woman walked proudly
past him with Lily in her arms.
In Kingsley's office she stopped to get Lily's bonnet, while the
little girl still clung to her neck, sobbing.
Kingsley stood taking in the scene in astonishment. He adjusted his
eye glasses several times, lilting them with the most pronounced
sarcastic lilt of which he was capable.
He stepped around and around the desk in agitated briskness.
He cleared his throat and jerked his pant legs up and down. And all
the time the fat old woman stood looking at him, with the
thunder-cloud on her brow and unexpressed scorn struggling for speech
in her eyes.
"Ah-hem--ah-ha--Aunt Maria" for Kingsley had caught on to the better
class of Southern ways--"inform me--ah, what does all this mean?"
The old woman drew herself up proudly and replied with freezing
politeness:
"I beg yo' pardon, sah--but I was not awares that I had any nephew
in the mill, or was related to anybody in here, sah. I hav'nt my
visitin' cyard with me, but if I had 'em heah you'd find my
entitlements, on readin', was somethin' lak this: _Miss Maria Conway,
of Zion!_"
Kingsley flushed, rebuked. Then he adjusted his glasses again with
agitated nervous attempts at a lilt. Then he struck his level and
fell back on his natural instinct, unmixed, with attempts at being
what he was not:
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Conway"--
"Git my entitlements right, please sah. I'm the only old maid lady of
color you ever seed or ever will see again. Niggahs, these days, lak
birds, all git 'em a mate some way--but I'm Miss Conway of Zion."
"Ah, beg pardon, Miss Conway--Miss Conway of Zion. And where, pray,
is that city, Miss Conway? I may have to have an officer communicate
with you."
"With pleasure, sah--It's a pleasure for me to he'p people find a
place dey'd never find without help--no--not whilst they're a-workin'
the life out of innocent tots an' babes--"
Kingsley flushed hot, angered:
"What do you mean, old woman?"
"The ole woman means," she said, looking him steadily in the eye,
"that you are dealin' in chile slavery, law or no law; that you're
down heah preachin' one thing for niggahs an' practisin' another for
yo' own race; that yo' hair frizzles on yo' head at tho'rt of niggah
slavery, whilst all the time you are enslavin' the po' little whites
that's got yo' own blood in their veins. An' now you wanter know what
I come for? I come for my chile!"
Kingsley was too dumfounded to speak. In all his life never had his
hypocrisy been knocked to pieces so completely.
"What does all this mean?" asked Jud Carpenter rushing hastily into
the room.
"Come on baby," said the old woman as she started toward the door.
"I've got a home for us, an' whilst old mammy can take in washin'
you'll not wuck yo' life out with these people."
Jud broke in harshly: "Come, ole 'oman,--you put that child down.
You've got nothin' to support her with."
She turned on him quickly: "I've got mo' silver tied up in ole socks
that the Conways give me in slavery days when they had it by the
bushel, than sech as you ever seed. Got nothin'? Jus' you come over
and see the little home I've got fixed up for Marse Ned an' the
babies. Got nothin'? See these arms? Do you think they have forgot
how to cook an' wash? Come on, baby--we'll be gwine home--Miss
Helen'll come later."
"Put her down, old woman," said Carpenter sternly. "You can't take
her--she's bound to the mill."
"Oh, I can't?" said the old woman as she walked out with Lily--"Can't
take her. Well, jes' look at me an' see. This is what I calls Zion,
an' the Lam' an' the wolves had better stay right where they are,"
she remarked dryly, as she walked off carrying Lily in her arms.
Down through a pretty part of the town, away from Cottontown, she led
the little girl, laughing now and chatting by the old woman's side,
a bird freed from a cage.
"And you'll bring sister Helen, too?" asked Lily.
"That I will, pet,--she'll be home to-night."
"Oh, Mammy, it's so good to have you again--so good, and I thought
you never would come."
They walked away from Cottontown and past pretty houses. In a quiet
street, with oaks and elms shading it, she entered a yard in which
stood a pretty and nicely painted cottage. Lily clapped her hands
with laughter when she found all her old things there--even her pet
dolls to welcome her--all in the cunningest and quaintest room
imaginable. The next room was her father's, and Mammy's room was next
to hers and Helen's. She ran out only to run into her father's arms.
Small as she was, she saw that he was sober. He took her on his lap
and kissed her.
"My little one," he said--"my little one"--
"Mammy," asked the little girl as the old woman came out--"how did
you get all this?"
"Been savin' it all my life, chile--all the money yo' blessed mother
give me an' all I earned sence I was free. I laid it up for a rainy
day an' now, bless God, it's not only rainin' but sleetin' an' cold
an' snowin' besides, an' so I went to the old socks. It's you all's,
an' all paid fur, an' old mammy to wait on you. I'm gwine to go after
Miss Helen before the mill closes, else she'll be gwine back to
Millwood, knowin' nothin' of all this surprise for her. No,
sah,--nary one of yo' mother's chillun shall ever wuck in a mill."
Conway bowed his head. Then he drew Lily to him as he knelt and
said: "Oh, God help me--make me a man, make me a Conway again."
It was his first prayer in years--the beginning of his reformation.
And every reformation began with a prayer.
CHAPTER XVII
THE DOUBLE THAT DIED
Two hours before the mill closed Richard Travis came hurriedly into
the mill office. There had been business engagements to be attended
to in the town before leaving that night for the North, and he had
been absent from the mill all day. Now everything was ready even to
his packed trunk--all except Helen.
"He's come for her," said Jud to himself as he walked over to the
superintendent's desk.
Then amid the hum and the roar of the mill he bent his head and the
two whispered low and earnestly together. As Jud talked in excited
whispers, Travis lit a cigar and listened coolly--to Jud's
astonishment--even cynically.
"An' what you reckin' she done--the ole 'oman? Tuck the little gyrl
right out of my han's an' kerried her home--marched off as proud as
ole Queen Victory."
"Home? What home?" asked Travis.
"An' that's the mischief of it," went on Jud. "I thort she was lyin'
about the home, an' I stepped down there at noon an' I hope I may die
to-night if she ain't got 'em all fixed up as snug as can be, an' the
Major is there as sober es a jedge, an' lookin' like a gentleman an'
actin' like a Conway. Say, but you watch yo' han'. That's blood that
won't stan' monkeyin' with when it's in its right mind. An' the
little home the ole 'oman's got, she bought it with her own money,
been savin' it all her life an' now"--
"What did you say to her this morning?" asked Travis.
"Oh, I cussed her out good--the old black"--
A peculiar light flashed in Richard Travis' eyes. Never before had