Moriah\'s Mourning and Other Half Hour Sketches

R >> Ruth McEnery Stuart >> Moriah\'s Mourning and Other Half Hour Sketches

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He was a fat old man and short of neck.

For five years he had realized a feeling of thankfulness that the
Presbyterian form of worship permitted standing in prayer. It hurt him
to kneel. But nothing could hurt him so much as to fail to hand in his
report to-night. Indeed, the missionary collection would be affected by
it. It _must be written_.

He found a corner in the room and got down on his marrow-bones, throwing
his hands forward and bringing them back in far-reaching curves, as one
swimming. This was hard work, and before many minutes great drops of
perspiration were falling upon the carpet and the old man's breath came
in quick gasps.

"Ef I jest had the blame things _for a minute_ to slip on my eyes, why,
_I could find 'em_--easy enough!" he ejaculated--desperation in his
voice.

And then he proceeded to say a number of things that were lacking in
moderation, and consequently very sinful--in an elder of the church.

The "bad words" spoken in the vacant house fell accusingly upon the
speaker's ears, and they must have startled him, for he hastened to add:
"I don't see where no sense o' jestice comes in, nohow, in allowin' a
man on the very eve of doin' his Christian duty to lose his most
important wherewithal!"

This plea was no doubt in mild extenuation of the explosive that had
preceded it, and as he turned and drew himself forward by his elbows to
compass a new section of the room, which, by-the-way, seemed suddenly
expanded in size, he began to realize that the plea was in itself most
sinful--even more so than the outburst, perhaps, being an implication of
divine injustice.

A lump came into his throat, and as he proceeded laboriously along on
his dry swim, he felt for a moment in danger of crying.

Of course this would never do, but there was just so much emotion within
him, and it had begun to ferment.

Before he realized his excitement his arms were flying about wildly and
he was shrieking in a frenzy.

"But _I must have 'em_! I _must have 'em_! I must, I say; O Lord, I
must--I MUST HAVE THEM SPECTACLES! Lor-r-d, I have work to do--FOR
THEE--an' I am eager to perform it. All I ask is FIVE MINUTES' USE O'
MY EYES, so thet I may pursue this search in patience--"

His voice broke in a sob.

And just now it was that his left hand, fumbling over the foot of the
sewing-machine treadle, ran against a familiar bit of steel wire.

If it had connected with an ordinary electric battery, the resulting
shock could scarcely have been more pronounced.

There was something really pathetic in the spasmodic grasp with which he
seized the glasses, and as he rose to a sitting posture and lifted them
to his eyes, his hand shook pitifully.

"Thank the Lord! _Now I can see to look for 'em!_" And as he
tremblingly brought the curved ends of the wire around his ears he
exclaimed with fervor, "Yas, Lord, with Thy help I will keep my
vow--an' pursue this search in patience." His wet, red face beamed
with pleasure over the recovery of his near vision. So happy was he,
indeed, in the new possession, that, instead of rising, he sat still
in the middle of the floor, running his eyes with rapid scrutiny over
the carpet near him. He sat here a long time--even forgetting his
discomfort, while he turned as on a pivot as the search required.
Though the missing articles did not promptly appear at his side,
Bradley felt that he was having a good time, and so he was,
comparatively. Of course he would find the glasses presently. He
looked at his watch. What a joy to see its face! He would still have
time to do the report, if he hurried a little. He began to rise by
painful stages.

"Lemme see! The last thing I done was to open the sideboa'd an' cut
a piece o' pie an' eat it. I _must_ o' had my glasses on then. I
ricollec' it was sweet-potato pie, an' it was scorched on one side.
Lordy! but what a pleasure it is to look for a thing when a person
_can_ look!" He crossed over to the sideboard.

"Yas"--he had opened the door and was cutting another piece of pie.
"Yas. Sweet-potato pie, an' burnt on one side--the side thet's left.
Yas, an' I'll leave it ag'in!" He chuckled as he took a deep bite.

"Of co'se I _must 'a'_ had 'em on _when I cut the pie_, or I couldn't
've _saw_ it so distinc'--'an I finished that slice a-settin' down
talkin' to her at the sewin'-machine. Ricollec' I told _her_ how mother
used to put cinnamon in hers. I'll go set there ag'in, an' maybe by
lookin' 'round--They might 'a' dropped in her darnin'-basket."

It was while he sat here, running one hand through the basket and
holding the slice of pie in the other, that he heard a step, and,
looking up, he saw his wife standing in the door.

"Why, Ephraim! What on earth!" she exclaimed. "I lef you there eatin'
that pie fo' hours ago, an' I come back an' find you settin' there yet!
You cert'n'y 'ain't forgot to make out yo' report?"

"Forgot nothin', Maria." He swallowed laboriously as he spoke. "I 'ain't
done a thing sence you been gone but look for my glasses--not a blame
thing. An' I'm a-lookin' for 'em yet."

Mrs. Bradley was frightened. She walked straight up to her husband and
took his hand. "Ephraim," she said, gently, and as she spoke she drew
the remainder of the pie from his yielding fingers--"Ephraim, I
wouldn't eat any mo' o' that heavy pie ef I was you. You ain't well.
Ef you can't make no mo' headway'n that on yo' favor_ite_ pie in fo'
hours, you're shorely goin' to be took sick." She took her handkerchief
and wiped his forehead. And then she added, with a sweet, wifely
tenderness: "To prove to you thet you ain't well, honey, yo' glasses
are on yo' nose right now. You better go lay down."

Bradley looked straight into her face for some moments, but he did not
even blink. Then he said, in an awe-stricken voice: "Ef what you say
is true, Maria--an' from the clairness with which I see the serious
expression of yo' countenance I reckon it must be so--ef it _is_ so--"
He paused here, and a new light came into his eyes, and then they
filled with tears. "Why, Maria honey, _of co'se it's so_! I know when
I found 'em! But I was so full o' the thought thet _ef I jest had
my sight_ I could _look for 'em_ thet I slipped 'em on my nose an'
continued the search. Feel my pulse, honey; I've no doubt you're right.
I'm a-goin' to have a spell o' sickness."

"Yes, dearie, I'm 'feered you are."

The good woman drew him over to the lounge and carefully adjusted a
pillow to his head. "Now take a little nap, an' I'll send word over to
Elder Jones's thet you ain't feelin' well an' can't come to
prayer-meetin' to-night. What you need is rest, an' a change o' subject.
I jest been over to May Bennett's, an' she's give out thet she an' Pete
Sanders has broke off their engagement--an' Joe Legget, why his leg's
amputated clean off--an' Susan Tucker's baby had seven spasms an'--"

"That so? I'm glad to hear it, wife. But ef you send word over to him
thet I ain't well, don't send tell the last minute, please. Ef you was
to, he'd come by here, shore--an' they'd be questions ast, an' I
couldn't stand it. Jest send word when the second bell starts a-ringin'
thet I ain't well. _An' I ain't_, Maria."

"I'm convinced o' that, Ephraim--or I wouldn't send the message--an' you
know it. We ain't so hard pressed for excuses thet we're goin' to lie
about it. I knowed you wasn't well ez soon ez I see that piece o' pie."

Bradley coughed a little. "Appearances is sometimes deceitful, Maria. I
hadn't wrastled with that pie ez unsuccessful ez I seemed. That was the
second slice I'd et sence you left. No, the truth is, I lost my glasses,
an' I got erritated an' flew into a temper an' said things. An' the
Lord, He punished me. He took my reason away. He gimme the glasses an'
denied me the knowledge of 'em. But I'm thankful to Him for lettin' me
have 'em--anyhow. Ef I was fo'ordained to search for 'em, it was mighty
merciful in Him to loan 'em to me to do it with."

THE SECOND MRS. SLIMM

Ezra Slimm was a widower of nearly a year, and, as a consequence, was in
a state of mind not unusual in like circumstances.

True, the said state of mind had not in his case manifested itself in
the toilet bloomings, friskiness of demeanor, and protestations of youth
renewed which had characterized the first signs of the same in the usual
run of Simpkinsville widowers up to date. If he had for several months
been mentally casting about for another wife, he had betrayed it by no
outward and visible sign. The fact is Ezra's case was somewhat
exceptional, as we shall presently see.

Although he was quite diminutive in size, there was in his bearing, as
with hands clasped behind him he paced up and down before his lonely
fireside, a distinct dignity that was not only essentially manly--it was
_gentlemanly_.

The refinement of feeling underlying this no doubt aggravated the
dilemma in which he found himself, and which we cannot sooner comprehend
than by attending to his soliloquy as he reviewed his trials in the
following somewhat rambling fashion:

"No, 'twouldn't never do in the world--never, never. 'Twouldn't never do
to marry any o' these girls round here thet knows all my ups an' downs
with--with pore Jinny. 'Twouldn't never do. Any girl thet knew thet her
husband had been chastised by his first wife the way I've been would
think thet ef she got fretted she was lettin' 'im off easy on a
tongue-lashin'. An' I s'pose they is times when any woman gits sort o'
wrought up, livin' day in an' day out with a man. No, 'twouldn't never
do," he repeated, as, thrusting both hands in his pockets, he stopped
before the fire, and steadying the top of his head against the mantel,
studied the logs for a moment.

"An' so the day pore Jinny took it upon herself to lay me acrost her lap
an' punish me in the presence of sech ill-mannered persons ez has seen
fit to make a joke of it--though I don't see where the fun comes
in--well, that day she settled the hash for number two so fur ez this
town goes.

"No, 'twouldn't never do in the world! Even ef she never throwed it up
to me, I'd be suspicious. She couldn't even to say clap her hands
together to kill a mosquito less'n I'd think she was insinuatin'. An'
jest ez quick ez any man suspicions thet his wife is a-naggin' him
intentional, it's good-by happiness.

"Ef 'twasn't for that, of co'se they's more'n one young woman roun' this
county thet any man might go further an' do worse than git.

"Not thet I hold it agin Jinny, now she's gone, but--"

He had resumed his promenade, extending it through a second room as he
proceeded:

"--but it does seem strange how a woman gifted in prayer ez she was,
an' with all her instinc's religious the way hers was, should o' been
allowed to take sech satisfaction in naggin' the very one she agonized
most over in prayer, which I _know_ she done over me, _for I've heerd
'er_. An' ef she had o' once-t mentioned me to the Lord confidential
ez a person fitten to commingle with the cherubim an' seraphim, 'stid
of a pore lost sinner not fitten to bresh up their wing-feathers for
'em, I b'lieve I might o' give in. I don't wonder I 'ain't never had a
call to enter the Kingdom on her ricommendation. 'Twouldn't o' been
fair to the innocent angels thet would 'a' been called on to associate
with me. That's the way I look at it.

"An' yit Jinny 'lowed herself thet my _out'ard ac's_ was good, but
bein' ez they didn't spring from a converted _heart_, they was jest
nachel _hypocercy_, an' thet ef I'd o' lied an' stole, _or even
answered her back_, she'd o' had more hope for me, because, sez she,
a 'consistent sinner is ap' to make a consistent Christian.'

"She even tol' me one day--pore Jinny! I can see her face light up now
when she said it--sez she, 'I'm ac-chilly most afeerd _to_ see you
converted, less'n you'll break out in some devilment you hadn't never
thought about before-you're that inconsistent.'

[Illustration: "'I'M AC-CHILLY MOST AFEERD _TO_ SEE YOU CONVERTED'"]

"Sometimes I feel mean to think I don't miss 'er more'n what I do--an'
she so lively, too. Tell the truth, I miss them little devils she used
to print on the butter pads she set at my plate ez a warnin' to me--seem
to me I miss them jest about ez much ez I miss her.

"The nearest I ever _did_ come to answerin' her back--'cept, of co'se,
the time she chastised me--was the way I used regular to heat my
knife-blade good an' hot 'twix' two batter-cakes an' flatten that devil
out _de_lib'rate. But he'd be back nex' day, pitchfork an' all.

"But with it all Jinny loved me--in her own way, of co'se. Doubt if I'll
ever git another to love me ez well; 'n' don't know ez I crave it,
less'n she was different dispositioned.

"I've done paid her all the respec's I know--put up a fine Bible-texted
tombstone for her, an' had her daguerre'type enlarged to a po'tr'it. I
don't know's I'm obligated to do any more, 'cep'n, of co'se, to wait
till the year's out, which, not havin' no young children in need of a
mother, I couldn't hardly do less than do."

It was about a week after this that Ezra sat beside his fire reading his
paper, when his eye happened to fall upon the following paragraph among
the "personals":

"The Claybank Academy continues to thrive under the able management
of Miss Myrtle Musgrove. That accomplished and popular young lady
has abolished the use of the rod, and by substituting the law of
kindness she has built up the most flourishing academy in the
State."

Ezra read the notice three times. Then he laid the paper down, and
clapping his hand upon it, exclaimed: "Well, I'll be doggoned ef that
ain't the woman for me! _Any_ girl thet could teach a county school an'
abolish whuppin'--not only a chance to do it, but a crowd o' young
rascals _needin_' it all around 'er, an' her _not doin' it_! An' yit
some other persons has been known to strain a p'int to whup a person
they 'ain't rightly got no business _to_ whup." He read the notice
again. "Purty name that, too, Myrtle Musgrove. Sounds like a girl to go
out walkin' with under the myrtle-trees in the grove moonlight nights,
Myrtle Musgrove does.

"I declare, I ain't to say religious, but I b'lieve that notice was
sent to me providential.

"Of co'se, maybe she wouldn't look at me ef I ast her; but one thing
shore, she _can't if I don't_.

"Claybank is a good hund'ed miles from here 'n' I couldn't leave the
farm now, noways; besides, the day I start a-makin' trips from home,
talk'll start, an' I'll be watched close-ter'n what I'm watched now--ef
that's possible. But th' ain't nothin' to hender me _writin_'--ez I
can see."

This idea, once in his mind, lent a new impulse to Ezra's life, a fresh
spring to his gait, so evident to solicitous eyes that during the next
week even his dog noticed it and had a way of running up and sniffing
about him, as if asking what had happened.

An era of hope had dawned for the hitherto downcast man simply because
Miss Myrtle Musgrove, a woman he had never seen, had abolished whipping
in a distant school.

Two weeks passed before Ezra saw his way clearly to write the proposed
letter, but he did, nevertheless, in the interval, walk up and down his
butter-bean arbor on moonlight nights, imagining Miss Myrtle beside
him--Miss Myrtle, named for his favorite flower. He _had_ preferred
the violet, but he had changed his mind. Rose-colored crepe-myrtles were
blooming in his garden at the time. Maybe this was why he began to think
of her as a pink-faced laughing girl, typified by the blushing flower.
Everything was so absolutely real in her setting that the ideal girl
walked, a definite embodiment of his fancy, night after night by his
side, and whether it was from his life habit or an intuitive fancy, he
looked _upward_ into her face. He had always liked tall women.

And all this time he was trying to frame a suitable letter to the real
"popular and accomplished Miss Musgrove," of Claybank Academy.

Finally, however, the ambitious and flowery document was finished.

It would be unfair to him whose postscript read, "For Your Eyes alone,"
to quote in full, for the vulgar gratification of prying eyes, the
pathetic missive that told again the old story of a lonely home, the
needed woman. But when it was sent, Ezra found the circuit of the
butter-bean arbor too circumscribed a promenade, and began taking the
imaginary Miss Myrtle with him down through his orchard and
potato-patch.

It was during these moonlight communings that he seemed to discover that
she listened while he talked--a new experience to Ezra--and that even
when he expressed his awful doubts as to the existence of a personal
devil she only smiled, and thought he might be right.

Oh, the joy of such companionship! But, oh, the slowness of the mails!

A month passed, and Ezra was beginning to give up all hope of ever
having an answer to his letter, when one day it came, a dainty envelope
with the Claybank postmark.

Miss Musgrove thanked him for his letter. She would see him. It would
not be convenient now, but would he not come down to the academy's
closing exercises in June--a month later? Until then she was very
respectfully his friend, Myrtle Musgrove.

The next month was the longest in Ezra's life. Still, the Lord's
calendar is faithful, and the sun not a waiter upon the moods of men.

In twenty-nine days exactly a timid little man stood with throbbing
heart at the door of Claybank Academy, and in a moment more he had
slipped into a back seat of the crowded room, where a young orator was
ringing Poe's "Bells" through all the varying cadences of his changing
voice to a rapt audience of relations and friends. Here unobserved Ezra
hoped to recover his self-possession, remove the beads of perspiration
one by one from his brow with a corner of his neatly folded
handkerchief, and perhaps from this vantage-ground even enjoy the
delight of recognizing Miss Myrtle without an introduction.

He had barely deposited his hat beneath his chair when there burst upon
his delighted vision a radiant, dark-eyed, red-haired creature in pink,
sitting head and shoulders above her companions on a bench set at right
angles with the audience seats, in front of the house. There were a
number of women in the row, and they were without bonnets. Evidently
these were the teachers, and of course the pink goddess was Miss Myrtle
Musgrove.

Ezra never knew whether the programme was long or short. The bells had
tintinabulated and musically welled into "Casabianca" which, in turn,
had merged into "The Queen o' the May," and presently before he realized
it Freedom was ringing in the closing notes of "America," and everybody
was standing up, pupils filing out, guests shaking hands, babel
reigning, and he had seen only a single, towering, handsome woman in all
the assembly.

Indeed, it had never occurred to him to doubt his own intuition, until
suddenly he heard his own name quite near, and turning quickly, he saw a
stout matronly woman of forty years or thereabouts standing beside him,
extending her hand.

Every unmarried woman is a "young lady" by courtesy south of Mason and
Dixon's line.

"I knew you as soon as I saw you, Mr. Slimm," she was saying. "I am Miss
Musgrove. But you didn't know me," she added, archly, while Ezra made
his bravest effort at cordiality, seizing her hand in an agony which it
is better not to attempt to describe.

Miss Musgrove's face was wholesome, and so kindly that not even a
cross-eye had power to spoil it. But Ezra saw only the plain middle-aged
woman--the contrast to the blooming divinity whose image yet filled his
soul. And he was committed to her who held his hand, unequivocally
committed in writing. If he sent heavenward an agonized prayer for
deliverance from a trying crisis, his petition was soon answered. And
the merciful instrument was even she of the cross-eye. Before he had
found need of a word of his own, she had drawn him aside, and was
saying:

"You see, Mr. Slimm, the only trouble with me is that I am already
married."

"Married!" gasped Ezra, trying in vain to keep the joy out of his voice.
"Married, you--you don't mean--"

"Yes, married to my profession--the only husband I shall ever take. But
your letter attracted me. I am a Normal School psychology student--a
hard name for a well-meaning woman--and it seemed to me you were worth
investigating. So I investigated. Then I knew you ought to be helped.
And so I sent for you, and I am going to introduce you to three of the
sweetest girls in Dixie; and if you can't find a wife among them, then
you are not so clever as I think you--that's all about it. And here
comes one of them now. Kitty, step here a minute, please. Miss Deems, my
friend, Mr. Slimm."

And Miss Myrtle Musgrove was off across the room before Ezra's gasp had
fully expanded into the smile with which he greeted Miss Kitty Deems, a
buxom lass with freckles and dimples enough to hold her own anywhere.

Two other delightful young women were presented at intervals during the
afternoon in about the same fashion, and but for a certain pink Juno who
flitted about ever in sight, Ezra would have confessed only an
embarrassment of riches.

"And how do you get on with my girls?" was Miss Musgrove's greeting
when, late in the evening, she sought Ezra for a moment's _tete-a-tete_.

He rubbed his hands together and hesitated.

"'Bout ez fine a set o' young ladies ez I ever see," he said, with real
enthusiasm; "but, tell the truth, I--but you've a'ready been so
kind--but--There she is now! That tall, light-complected one in pink--"

"Why, certainly, Mr. Slimm. If you say so, I'll introduce her. A fine,
thorough-going girl, that. You know we have abolished whipping in the
academy, and that girl thought one of her boys needed it, and she
followed him home, and gave it to him there, and his father interfered,
and--well, _she whipped him too_. Fine girl. Not afraid of anything
on earth. Certainly I'll introduce you, if you say so."

She stopped and looked at Ezra kindly. And he saw that she knew all.

"Well, I ain't particular. Some other time," he began to say; then
blushing scarlet, he seized her hand, and pressing it, said, fervently,
"God bless you!"

* * * *

The second Mrs. Slimm is a wholesome little body, with dimples and
freckles, whom Ezra declares "God A'mighty couldn't o' made without
thinkin' of Ezra Slimm an' his precize necessities."

No one but himself and Miss Musgrove ever knew the whole story of his
wooing, nor why, when in due season a tiny dimpled Miss Slimm came into
the family circle, it was by Ezra's request that she was called Myrtle.

APOLLO BELVEDERE

A CHRISTMAS EPISODE OF THE PLANTATION

He was a little yellow man with a quizzical face and sloping shoulders,
and when he gave his full name, with somewhat of a flourish, as if it
might hold compensations for physical shortcomings, one could hardly
help smiling. And yet there was a pathos in the caricature that
dissipated the smile half-way. It never found voice in a laugh. The
pathetic quality was no doubt a certain serious ingenuousness--a
confiding look that always met your eye from the eager face of the
diminutive wearer of second-hand coats and silk hats.

"Yas, I'm named 'Pollo Belvedere, an' my marster gi'e me dat intitlemint
on account o' my shape," he would say, with a strut, on occasion, if he
were bantered, for he had learned that the name held personal
suggestions which it took a little bravado to confront. Evidently
Apollo's master was a humorist.

Apollo had always been a house-servant, and had for several years served
with satisfaction as coachman to his master's family; but after the
breaking up, when the place went into other hands, he failed to find
favor with the new-comers, who had an eye for conventional form, and so
Apollo was under the necessity of accepting lower rank on the place as a
field-hand. But he entered plantation circles with his head up. He had
his house rearing, his toilets, and his education--all distinguishing
possessions in his small world--and he was, in his way, quite a
gentleman. Apollo could read a chapter from the Bible without stopping
to spell. He seized his words with snap-shots and pronounced them with
genius. Indeed, when not limited by the suggestions of print, as when on
occasion he responded to an invitation to lead in public prayer, he was
a builder of words of so noble and complex architecture that one hearing
him was pleased to remember that the good Lord, being omniscient, must
of course know all tongues, and would understand.

That the people of the plantation thought well of Apollo will appear
from the fact that he was more than once urged to enter the ministry;
but this he very discreetly declined to do, and for several reasons. In
the first place he didn't feel "called to preach"; and in the second
place he did feel called or impelled to play the fiddle; and more than
that, he liked to play dance music, and to have it "danced by."

As Apollo would have told you himself, the fact that he had never
married was not because he couldn't get anybody to have him, but simply
that he hadn't himself been suited. And, indeed, it is because of the
romance of his life that Apollo comes at all into this little sketch
that bears his name. Had he not been so pathetic in his serious and
grotesque personality, the story would probably have borne the name of
its heroine, Miss Lily Washington, of Lone Oak Plantation, and would
have concerned a number of other people.

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