CHAPTER XXI.
It was past midday about two weeks later that Dianthe wandered about the silent woods, flitting through the mazes of unfamiliar forest paths. Buried in sad thoughts she was at length conscious that her surroundings were strange, and that she had lost her way. Every now and then the air was thick and misty with powdery flakes of snow which fell, or swept down, rather, upon the brown leaf-beds and withered grass. The buffeting winds which kissed her glowing hair into waving tendrils brought no color to her white cheeks and no light to her eyes. For days she had been like this, thinking only of getting away from the busy house with its trained servants and its loathsome luxury which stifled her. How to escape the chains which bound her to this man was now her only thought. If Reuel lived, each day that found her still beneath the roof of this man whose wife she was in the eyes of the world, was a crime. Away, away, looking forward to she knew not what, only to get away from the sight of his hated face.
Presently she paused and looked about her. Where was she? The spot was wild and unfamiliar. There was no sight or sound of human being to question as to the right direction to take, not that it mattered much, she told herself in bitterness of spirit. She walked on more slowly now, scanning the woods for signs of a human habitation. An opening in the trees gave a glimpse of cultivated ground in a small clearing, and a few steps farther revealed a typical Southern Negro cabin, from which a woman stepped out and faced her as if expecting her coming. She was very aged, but still erect and noble in form. The patched figure was neat to scrupulousness, the eye still keen and searching.
As the woman advanced slowly toward her, Dianthe was conscious of a thrill of fear, which quickly passed as she dimly remembered having heard the servants jesting over old Aunt Hannah, the most noted “voodoo” doctor or witch in the country.
“Come in, honey, and res’,” were her first words after her keen eyes had traveled over the woman before her. Dianthe obeyed without a murmur; in truth, she seemed again to have lost her own will in another’s.
The one-roomed cabin was faultlessly neat, and the tired girl was grateful for the warmth of the glowing brands upon the wide hearth. Very soon a cup of stimulating coffee warmed her tired frame and brought more animation to her tired face.
“What may your name be, Auntie?” she asked at length, uneasy at the furtive glances cast by the eyes of the silent figure seated in the distant shadow of the chimney-corner. The eyes never wavered, but no answer was vouchsafed her by the woman in the corner. Somewhere she had read a description of an African princess which fitted the woman before her.
“I knew a princess; she was old,Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a lookSuch as no dainty pen of goldWould write of in a fairy book.“...Her face was like a Sphinx’s face, to me,Touched with vast patience, desert grace,And lonesome, brooding mystery.”
Suddenly a low sound, growing gradually louder, fell upon Dianthe’s ear; it was the voice of the old woman crooning a mournful minor cadence, but for an instant it sent a chill about the girl’s heart. It was a funeral chant commonly sung by the Negroes over the dead. It chimed in with her gloomy, despairing mood and startled her. She arose hastily to her feet to leave the place.
“How can I reach the road to Livingston Place?” she asked with a shudder of apprehension as she glanced at her entertainer.
“Don’t be ’feared, child; Aunt Hannah won’t hurt a ha’r of that purty head. Hain’t it these arms done nussed ev’ry Livingston? I knowed your mother, child; for all you’re married to Marse Aubrey, you isn’t a white ’ooman.”
“I do not deny what you say, Auntie; I have no desire so to do,” replied Dianthe gently.
With a cry of anguish the floodgates of feeling were unloosed, and the old Negress flung her arms about the delicate form. “Gawd-a-mercy! My Mira’s gal! My Mira’s gal!” Then followed a harrowing scene.
Dianthe listened to the old story of sowing the wind and reaping the whirlwind. A horrible, paralyzing dread was upon her. Was she never to cease from suffering and be at rest? Rocking herself to and fro, and moaning as though in physical pain, the old woman told her story.
“I was born on de Livingston place, an’ bein’ a purty likely gal, was taken to de big house when I was a tot. I was trained by ol’ Miss’. As soon as I was growed up, my mistress changed in her treatment of me, for she soon knowed of my relations with massa, an’ she was hurt to de heart, po’ ’ooman. Mira was de onlies’ child of ten that my massa lef’ me for my comfort; all de res’ were sold away to raise de mor’gage off de prop’rty.
“Ol’ marse had only one chil’, a son; he was eddicated for a doctor, and of all the limb o’ de devil, he was de worst. After ol’ marse an’ ol’ miss’ was dead he took a shine to Mira, and for years he stuck to her in great shape. Her fust child was Reuel——”
“What!” shrieked Dianthe. “Tell me—quick, for God’s sake! Is he alive, and by what name is he known?” She was deathly white, and spread out her hands as if seeking support.
“Yes, he’s living, or was a year ago. He’s calledDr.Reuel Briggs, an’ many a dollar he has sent his ol’ granny, may the good Marster bless him!”
“Tell me all—tell me the rest,” came from the lips of the trembling girl.
“Her second child was a girl,—a beautiful, delicate child, an’ de Doctor fairly worshipped her. Dat leetle gal was yourself, an’ I’m your granny.”
“Then Reuel Briggs is my brother!”
“Certain; but let me tell you de res’, honey. Dese things jes’ got to happen in slavery, but I isn’t gwine to wink at de debbil’s wurk wif both eyes open. An’ I doesn’t want you to keep on livin’ with Marse Aubrey Livingston. It’s too wicked; it’s flyin’ in de face ob Almighty God. I’se wanted to tell you eber sense I knowed who he’d married. After a while de Doctor got to thinkin’ ’bout keepin’ up de family name, an’ de fus’ thing we knows he up an’ marries a white lady down to Charleston, an’ brings her home. Well! when she found out all de family secrets she made de house too hot to hol’ Mira, and it was ordered that she mus’ be sold away. I got on my knees to Marse an’ I prayed to him not to do it, but to give Mira a house on de place where she could be alone an’ bring up de childrun, an’ he would a done it but for his wife.”
The old woman paused to moan and rock and weep over the sad memories of the past. Dianthe sat like a stone woman.
“Den I believe de debbil took possession of me body and soul. A week before my po’ gal was to be sol’, Misses’ child was born, and died in about an hour; at about de same time Mira gave birth to a son, too. In de ’citemen’ de idea come to me to change de babies, fer no one would know it, I being alone when de chil’ died, an’ de house wil’ fer fear misses would die. So I changed debabies, an’ tol’ Marse Livingston dat Mira’s boy was de dead one. So, honey, Aubrey is your own blood brother an’ you got to quit dat house mejuntly.”
“My brother!”
Dianthe stood over the old woman and shook her by the arm, with a look of utter horror that froze her blood. “My brothers! both those men!”
The old woman mumbled and groaned, then started up.
Aunt Hannah breathed hard once or twice. Minute after minute passed. From time to time she glanced at Dianthe, her hard, toil-worn hands strained at the arms of her chair as if to break them. Her mind seemed wavering as she crooned:
“My Mira’s children; by de lotus-lily on each leetle breast I claim them for de great Osiris, mighty god. Honey, hain’t you a flower on your breast?”
Dianthe bowed her head in assent, for speech had deserted her. Then old Aunt Hannah undid her snowy kerchief and her dress, and displayed to the terrified girl the perfect semblance of a lily cut, as it were, in shining ebony.
“Did each of Mira’s children have this mark?”
“Yes, honey; all of one blood!”
Dianthe staggered as though buffeted in the face. Blindly, as if in some hideous trance, reeling and stumbling, she fell. Cold and white as marble, she lay in the old woman’s arms, who thought her dead. “Better so,” she cried, and then laughed aloud, then kissed the poor, drawn face. But she was not dead.
Time passed; the girl could not speak. The sacrilege of what had been done was too horrible. Such havoc is wrought by evil deeds. The first downward step of an individual or a nation, who can tell where it will end, through what dark and doleful shades of hell the soul must pass in travail?
“The laws of changeless justice bindOppressor and oppressed;And close as sin and suffering joined,We march to Fate abreast.”
The slogan of the hour is “Keep the Negro down!” but who is clear enough in vision to decide who hath black blood and who hath it not? Can any one tell? No, not one; for in His own mysterious way He has united the white race and the black race in this new continent. By the transgression of the law He proves His own infallibility: “Of one blood have I made all nations of men to dwell upon the whole face of the earth,” is as true to-day as when given to the inspired writers to be recorded. No man can draw the dividing line between the two races, for they are both of one blood!
Bending a little, as though very weak, and leaning heavily upon her old grandmother’s arm, Dianthe at length set out for the Hall. Her face was lined and old with suffering. All hope was gone; despair was heavy on her young shoulders whose life was blasted in its bloom by the passions of others.
As she looked upward at the grey, leaden sky, tears slowly trickled down her cheeks. “God have mercy!” she whispered.