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 look
Such as no dainty pen of gold
Would 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 called Dr. 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 de babies, 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 bind
Oppressor 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.
