The Entailed Hat; Or, Patty Cannon's Times
out whar it is. Ye ought to seen me fetch dat white hickory of a feller
in de eye yisterday, and he jest outen his teens. I know it's a kine of
impedent to be a courtin' of you, Virgie, dat's purtier dan Miss Vesty
herself--"
"Nobody can be as pretty as Miss Vesta," Virgie cried, delighted with
the compliment; "she's perfection."
"As I was gwyn to say," dryly added Samson, "I never just knowed what I
was a lettin' Marster Milburn keep my wages fur, till he married Miss
Vesty, and then I sot my eyes on Miss Vesty's friend an' maid, and I
says, 'Gracious goodness! dat's de loveliest gal in de world. I'll git
my money and buy her and set her free, and maybe she'll hab me, ole as I
am.'"
"She will, too, Samson, if you do that, I believe," Roxy cried; "see how
she's a-smiling and coloring about it."
Virgie's throat was sending up its tremors to her long-lashed eyes, and
a wild, speculative something throbbed in her slender wrists and beat in
the little jacket that was moulded to her swelling form: the first sight
of freedom in the wild doe--freedom, and a mate.
"My soul!" Roxy added, "if poor Mr. Wonnell could set me free, I think I
might pity him enough to be his wife."
Samson used his opportunity to stretch out his hand and take Virgie's,
while she indulged the wild dream.
"Dis han' is too purty," he said, "to be worn by a slave. Let me make it
free."
She turned away, but the negro had been a wise lover, and his plea
pierced home, and it struck the Caucasian fatherhood of the bright
quadroon.
"Freedom is mos' all I got," the negro continued; "it's wuth everything
but love, Virgie. Dat you got. Maybe we can swap' em and let me be yo'
slave."
"Don't, don't!" pleaded Virgie, pulling her hand very gently. "I'm
afeard of you; you clean the Bad Man's hat."
CHAPTER XX.
CASTE WITHOUT TONE.
Judge Custis was well out of town, riding to the north, when the little
reading-circle assembled, without his patronage, over the old store, and
the young minister directed it. In the warm afternoon the windows were
raised till Milburn's chill began to set in again, and they could hear
the mocking-bird, in his tree, tantalizing the great shaggy dog Turk by
whistling to him,
"Wsht! wsht! Come, sir! come, sir! Sic 'em! sic 'em! wh-i-it! sic 'em,
Turk! wsht! wh-i-i-t! Sirrah! Ha! ha!"
Turk would run a little way, run back, see nobody, watch all the windows
of the store, and finally he seemed to think the spot was haunted, or
unreliable in some way; for he would next run to the open store door,
and bark, run back, and, from a distance, watch the hollow dark within,
as if a vague enemy lived there, mocking his obedient nature and keeping
his mistress captive. Turk was a setter with mastiff mixing, worth a
little for the hunt and more for the watch, but as an ornament and
friend worth more than all; he was so impartial in his favors as to like
Aunt Hominy and Vesta about equally, and often slept in the kitchen
before the great chimney fire.
"Do we worry you, Mr. Milburn, by reading here?" Vesta asked.
"No, my darling. It is so kind of you to bring music to my poor loft."
William Tilghman opened his Bible at a place marked by a little
ribbon-backed bristol card, inscribed in Vesta's childhood by her
learning fingers, "Watch with me." He thought of his cousin, now
fluttering between her betrayal to this Pilate and her crucifixion, and
caught her eyes looking at the Bible-marker, as if saying to him and to
the forest maiden, "Watch with me."
Tilghman started the reading, Vesta followed, and Rhoda had to do her
part, also; but she required to labor hard to keep up, as the chapter
was in the Acts, descriptive of Paul's voyage towards Rome, and had
plenty of hard words and geography in it. At one verse, Rhoda's reading
was like this:
"And--when--we--had--sailed--slowl--li--many-days--and--scare--scare--skar
--skurse--I declar', Aunt Vesty, this print is blombinable!--scace--Oh,
yes, scacely--scarce--were--come--over--against--Ceni--Snide--Snid--Mr.
Tilghman, what is this crab-kine of word? Cnidus? Well, I declar'! a dog
couldn't spell that; it looks like Snyder spelled by his hired
man--against Cnidus--the--wind--not--snuffers--no, snuffering (here
Rhoda executed the double sniffle)--yes, didn't I say snuffering? I mean
suffering--suffering--us--we--sailed--under--I can't spell that nohow;
nobody kin!"
"'Sailed under Crete,' dear," assisted Vesta.
"Sailed under--Crety--over--against--Sal--Sal--Salm--oh, yes, psalms!
No: Sal Money."
"Salmone," explained the rector, not daring to look up; "we sailed under
Crete over against Salmone; and, hardly passing it, came unto a place
which is called the Fair Havens, nigh whereunto was the city of Lasea.'"
"Lord sakes!" exclaimed Rhoda, putting out her crescent foot, on which
was Vesta's worked stocking, "did they have Fair Havens in them days?
Was it this one over yer on the Wes'n Shu?"
"No," answered Tilghman; "Fair Havens was always a ready name for
sailors finding a good port in trouble."
"Thar ain't no good port out thar on the Oushin side now but Monroe's
Inlet, outen Jinkotig. The rest of 'em gits filled up, an' kadgin's the
on'y way to kadge through of 'em, Misc Somers says."
"She means warping, or pulling over a shoal inlet by a rope to an
anchor, as the water lifts the vessel."
"Yes, you know, Mr. Tilghman," Rhoda cried, delighted; "that's
kadgin'--pullin' over the bar by the anchor line. You're all agroun',
can't git nowhar, air a-bumpin' on the bar, an' the breakers is comin'
dreadful in your side: you'll break all up if you stay thar. So you git
the little anchor--the little one is better than ary too big a one--an'
put it in the yawl an' paddle acrost the bar an' sot her, an' them
aboard pulls as the billers lifts ye, and so they keep her headed in,
and, kadging, kadging, bumpety-bump, at las' you go clar of the bar an'
come home to smooth haven in Sinepuxin."
"Yes, my sisters," appended the young minister, "we need often to kedge
home, to warp over the bars of life, and Hope, in ever so little an
anchor, helps a little, if we do not lose the line. Little hopes are
often better than great ones, for o'er-great hopes swamp little vessels.
Even hope must be artfully shaped and skilfully dropped to take hold of
the unseen bottoms of opportunity. All of us have entertained burdensome
hopes, heavy anchors, and they would not hold us against the breakers;
but there may be little hopes, carried in advance of us, that will draw
us into pleasant sounds and bays."
"We owe to you, Rhoda, this comforting hope," said Vesta, "and, while
you are with us, we shall teach you to read more confidently."
Vesta then sang Charles Wesley's hymn:
"'Jesus, in us thyself reveal!
The winds are hushed, the sea is still,
If in the ship Thou art.
Oh, manifest Thy power divine;
Enter this sinking church of Thine,
And dwell in every heart.'"
The sounds of her singing reached the people, rambling curiously around
on Sunday afternoon to see the principals in the surprising marriage
they had but lately heard of, and, as she ended, Mr. Milburn called her,
saying,
"It is time for you to leave me till to-morrow."
"Is that your desire?"
"It is, kind lady. I have a servant-man, Samson, used to all my work,
and you can hear of my condition through your slave girls, going and
coming. I want you to feel free as ever, though my wife at last. I did
not seek you to cloud your morning, but to share your sunshine. Go to
Teackle Hall, and there I will come when I am stronger. At no time do I
ever wish you to sleep in this old stable."
"May I come and sit with you to-morrow, sir?"
"Oh, do so! I must see you a little day by day."
"May I take Rhoda with me?"
"Yes, if you will do it. She is a poor girl, but that is not her fault."
Vesta bent and touched his forehead with her lips, and, as she drew
back, he raised his cold hand and put a piece of paper in hers.
"Present my love to your mother," he said, in a chill; "and return her
the losses Judge Custis has named to me as her portion in Nassawongo
furnace. The amount is in this check, which I give you, although it is
Sunday, because it represents no business among any of us, but an act of
peace."
"You are an honorable man," Vesta said; "I have cost you dearly."
"It is the bumping of a few years on the bar," Meshach answered, trying
to smile; "be you my anchor out in calm water, and I will try to draw to
you some day. It is not the price I pay that troubles me; it is the
price you are paying."
"I am deeply interested in you," Vesta said; "if I should say more than
that, it would not now be true."
"Thank you for that much," Milburn said; "even your pity is a treasure,
and I thank God that I have made so much progress. Before you go, let my
bird come in, and then shut the window, to keep the night-hawks and owls
from finding him."
He managed, between his rising paroxysms of the chill, to whistle a note
or two, and Tom flew in the window and fluttered viciously around his
head, as if to be revenged for exile, and then, leaping on the old
hat-box, set up a show performance, in which were all the menagerie of
town and field, and, stopping a little while to hear the bird sing her
name again, Vesta and her friends withdrew.
Mrs. Custis was found in her bedroom, much improved in spirits, but
highly nervous.
"Oh, my poor, martyred, murdered idol!" she screamed, as Vesta came in;
"are you alive? Is the beast dead? Don't tell me he dares to live."
"Yes, mamma, here are his teeth," Vesta said, when she had kissed her
mother warmly. "He has sent you a check for all your lost money, and his
love, and me to live here with you in Teackle Hall. Liberty,
restitution, as you name it, and his affection to both of us: is he not
a gentleman now?"
Mrs. Custis eagerly took the check.
"Do you believe it is good, precious? Maybe he sent it to deceive me
while he could take advantage of your gratitude. Oh, these foresters are
devils! I wish I had the money for it."
"It is good for everything he has, mamma. Not to pay it would make him a
bankrupt. He gave it to me almost with gallantry. Indeed, he is the most
singular man I ever knew."
"That is the case with all pirates," said Mrs. Custis; "something in
the female nature attracts us to lawless men, who take what they
want--ourselves included. We were, I suppose, originally, just seized
and appropriated, and are looking out for the appropriator to this day.
But you, Vesta, with the Baltimore blood in you, do not expect to play
the Sabine bride tamely like that--to defend your spoiler and reconcile
him to your brethren?"
"I was thinking it was the Baltimore blood that made me appreciate Mr.
Milburn, mamma. The Custises were not traders."
"Pshaw! the Custises were libertines, unless history belies them; they
had else no popularity in the scamp court of Charley-over-the-water. He
thought the daughter of any gentleman in his following was made for his
mistress, and a large percentage of the said damsels thought he was
right."
"Mr. Milburn is no Cavalier, I can see that," Vesta said; "I am
attracted to him by elements of such strength and simplicity that I
fancy he is a Puritan."
"Puritan fiddlestick!" Mrs. Custis said, putting Milburn's check in her
bosom and pinning it in there, and looking vigilantly at the pin
afterwards. "Now, my great comfort, my only McLane! do not idealize this
forester as of any beginning whatsoever. It is all wrong. Thousands of
convicts were exported to Chesapeake Bay from the slums of London,
Bristol, Glasgow, and other places, and propagated here like the
pokeweed. With instincts of larceny, and, possibly, a little rebellion