The Bishop of Cottontown: A Story of the Southern Cotton Mills
"Child--child"--he whispered sadly--"You know not what you say. I am
dying. I shall be mad--unless--unless what you have done--"
"Take me," she pleaded--"my lion. I am yours."
He stooped and kissed her and then walked quickly away.
CHAPTER XX
THE ANGEL WITH THE FLAMING SWORD
It was nearly time for the mill to close when Mammy Maria, her big
honest face beaming with satisfaction at the surprise she had in
store for Helen, began to wind her red silk bandana around her head.
She had several bandanas, but when Lily saw her put on the red silk
one, the little girl knew she was going out--"dressin' fur
prom'nade"--as the old lady termed it.
"You are going after Helen," said the little girl, clapping her
hands.
She sat on her father's lap: "And we want you to hurry up, Mammy
Maria," he said, "I want all my family here. I am going to work
to-morrow. I'll redeem Millwood before my two years expire or I am
not a Conway again."
Mammy Maria was agitated enough. She had been so busy that she had
failed to notice how late it was. In her efforts to surprise Helen
she had forgotten time, and now she feared the mill might close and
Helen, not knowing they had moved, would go back to Millwood. This
meant a two mile tramp and delay. She had plenty of time, she knew,
before the mill closed; but the more she thought of the morning's
scene at the mill and of Jud Carpenter, the greater her misgivings.
For Mammy Maria was instinctive--a trait her people have. It is
always Nature's substitute when much intellect is wanting.
All afternoon she had chuckled to herself. All afternoon, the three
of them,--for even Major Conway joined in, and helped work and
arrange things--talked it over as they planned. His face was clear
now, and calm, as in the old days. Even the old servant could see he
had determined to win in the fight.
"Marse Ned's hisse'f ag'in," she would say to him
encouragingly--"Marse Ned's hisse'f--an' Zion's by his side, yea,
Lord, the Ark of the Tabbernackle!"
For the last time she surveyed the little rooms of the cottage. How
clean and fresh it all was, and how the old mahogany of Millwood set
them off! And now all was ready.
It was nearly dark when she reached the mill. It had not yet closed
down, and lights began to blaze first from one window, then another.
She could hear the steam and the coughing of the exhaust pipe.
This was all the old woman had hoped--to be in time for Helen when
the mill closed.
But one thing was in her way, or she had taken her as she did Lily:
She did not know where Helen's room was in the mill. There was no
fear in the old nurse's heart. She had taken Lily, she would take
Helen. She would show the whole tribe of them that she would! But in
which room was the elder sister?
So she walked again into the main office, fearless, and with her head
up. For was she not Zion, the Lord's chosen, the sanctified one, and
the powers of hell were naught?
No one was in the office but Jud Carpenter, and to her surprise he
treated her with the utmost courtesy. Indeed, his courtesy was so
intense that any one but Zion, who, being black, knew little of irony
and less of sarcasm, might have seen that Jud's courtesy was strongly
savored of the two.
"Be seated, Madam," he said with a profound bow. "Be seated, Upholder
of Heaven, Chief-cook-an'-bottle-washer in the Kingdom to come! An'
what may have sent the angel of the Lord to honor us with another
visit?"
The old woman's fighting feathers arose instantly:--
"The same that sent 'em to Sodom an' Gomarrer, suh," she replied.
"Ah," said Jud apologetically, "an' I hope we won't smell any
brimstone to-night."
"If you don't smell it to-night, you'll smell it befo' long. And now
look aheah, Mister White Man, no use for you an' me to set here
a-jawin' an' 'spu'tin'. I've come after my other gyrl an' you know
I'm gwine have her!"
"Oh, she'll be out 'torectly, Mrs. Zion! Jes' keep yo' robes on an'
hol' yo' throne down a little while. She'll be out 'torectly."
There was a motive in this lie, as there was in all others Jud
Carpenter told.
It was soon apparent. For scarcely had the old woman seated herself
with a significant toss of her head when the mill began to cease to
hum and roar.
She sat watching the door keenly as they came out. What creatures
they were, lint-and-dust-covered to their very eyes. The yellow,
hard, emotionless faces of the men, the haggard, weary ones of the
girls and women and little children! Never had she seen such white
people before, such hollow eyes, with dark, bloodless rings beneath
them, sunken cheeks, tanned to the color of oiled hickory, much used.
Dazed, listless, they stumbled out past her with relaxed under-jaws
and faces gloomy, expressionless--so long bent over looms, they had
taken on the very looks of them--the shapes of them, moving, walking,
working, mechanically. Women, smileless, and so tired and numbed that
they had forgotten the strongest instinct of humanity--the romance of
sex; for many of them wore the dirty, chopped-off jackets of men,
their slouched black hats, their coarse shoes, and talked even in the
vulgar, hard irony of the male in despair.
They all passed out--one by one--for in them was not even the
instinct of the companionship of misery.
Every moment the old nurse expected Helen to walk out, to walk out in
her queenly way, with her beautiful face and manners, so different
from those around her.
Jud Carpenter sat at his desk quietly cutting plug tobacco to fill
his pipe-bowl, and watching the old woman slyly.
"Oh, she'll be 'long 'torectly--you see the drawer-in bein' in the
far room comes out last."
The last one passed out. The mill became silent, and yet Helen did
not appear.
The old nurse arose impatiently: "I reck'n I'll go find her," she
said to Carpenter.
"I'd better sho' you the way, old 'oman," he said, lazily shuffling
off the stool he was sitting on pretending to be reading a
paper--"you'll never fin' the room by yo'self."
He led her along through the main room, hot, lint-filled and
evil-smelling. It was quite dark. Then to the rear, where the mill
jutted on the side of a hill, he stopped in front of a door and said:
"This is her room; she's in there, I reckin--she's gen'ly late."
With quickening heart the old woman entered and, almost immediately,
she heard the door behind her shut and the key turn in the bolt. The
room was empty and she sprang back to the door, only to find it
securely locked, and to hear Jud Carpenter's jeers from without. She
ran to the two small windows. They were high and looked out over a
ravine.
She did not utter a word. Reared as she had been among the Conways,
she was too well bred to act the coward, and beg and plead in
undignified tones for relief. At first she thought it was only a
cruel joke of the Whipper-in, but when he spoke, she saw it was not.
"Got you where I want you, Mother of Zion," he said through the key
hole. "I guess you are safe there till mornin' unless the Angel of
the Lord opens the do' as they say he has a way of doin' for
Saints--ha--ha--ha!"
No word from within.
"Wanter kno' what I shet you up for, Mother of all Holiness? Well,
listen: It's to keep you there till to-morrow--that's good reason,
ain't it? You'll find a lot of cotton in the fur corner--a mighty
good thing for a bed. Can't you talk? How do you like it? I guess you
ain't so independent now."
There was a pause. The old woman sat numbly in Helen's chair. She saw
a bunch of violets in her frame, and the odor brought back memories
of her old home. A great fear began to creep over her--not for
herself, but for Helen, and she fell on her knees by the frame and
prayed silently.
Jud's voice came again: "Want to kno' now why you'll stay there till
mornin'? Well, I'll tell you--it'll make you pass a com'f'table
night--you'll never see Miss Helen ag'in--"
The old nurse sprang to her feet. She lost control of herself, for
all day she had felt this queer presentiment, and now was it really
true? She blamed herself for not taking Helen that morning.
She threw herself against the door. It was strong and secure.
Jud met it with a jeering laugh.
"Oh, you're safe an' you'll never see her agin. I don't mind tellin'
you she has run off with Richard Travis--they'll go North to-night.
You'll find other folks can walk off with yo' gals--'specially the
han'sum ones--besides yo'se'f."
The old nurse was stricken with weakness. Her limbs shook so she sat
down in a heap at the door and said pleadingly:--"Are you lyin' to
me, white man? Will--will he marry her or--"
"Did you ever hear of him marryin' anybody?" came back with a laugh.
"No, he's only took a deserted young 'oman in out of the cold--he'll
take care of her, but he ain't the marryin' kind, is he?"
The reputation of Richard Travis was as well known to Mammy Maria as
it was to anyone. She did not know whether to believe Jud or not, but
one thing she knew--something--something dreadful was happening to
Helen. The old nurse called to mind instantly things that had
happened before she herself had left Millwood--things Helen had
said--her grief, her despair, her horror of the mill, her belief that
she was already disgraced. It all came to the old nurse now so
plainly. Tempted as she was, young as she was, deserted and forsaken
as she thought she was, might not indeed the temptation be too much
for her?
She groaned as she heard Jud laugh and walk off.
"O my baby, my beautiful baby!" she wept, falling on her knees again.
The mill grew strangely silent and dark. On a pile of loose cotton
she fell, praying after the manner of her race.
An hour passed. The darkness, the loneliness, the horror of it all
crept into her superstitious soul, and she became frantic with
religious fervor and despair.
Pacing the room, she sang and prayed in a frenzy of emotional tumult.
But she heard only the echo of her own voice, and only the wailings
of her own songs came back. Negro that she was, she was intelligent
enough to know that Jud Carpenter spoke the truth--that not for his
life would he have dared to say this if it had not had some truth in
it. What?--she did not know--she only knew that harm was coming to
Helen.
She called aloud for help--for Edward Conway. But the mill was closed
tight--the windows nailed.
Another hour passed. It began to tell on the old creature's mind.
Negroes are simple, religious, superstitious folks, easily unbalanced
by grief or wrong.
She began to see visions in this frenzy of religious excitement, as
so many of her race do under the nervous strain of religious feeling.
She fell into a trance.
It was most real to her. Who that has ever heard a negro give in his
religious experience but recognizes it? She was carried on the wings
of the morning down to the gates of hell. The Devil himself met her,
tempting her always, conducting her through the region of darkness
and showing her the lakes of fire and threatening her with all his
punishment if she did not cease to believe. She overcame him only by
constant prayer. She fled from him, he followed her, but could not
approach her while she prayed.... She was rescued by an angel--an
angel from heaven ... an angel with a flaming sword. Through all the
glories of heaven this angel conducted her, praised her, and bidding
her farewell at the gate, told her to go back to earth and take this:
_It was a torch of fire!_
"_Burn! burn!_" said the angel--"_for I shall make the governors of
Judah like an hearth of fire among the wood, and like a torch of fire on
a sheaf. And they shall devour all the people around about, on the right
hand and the left; and Jerusalem shall be inhabited again in her own
place, even in Jerusalem._"