haying time was coming on, and now the miller turned farmer. he left the mill to sampson and spent the mornings about the barns and stables; looking after the condition of the horses, mending the racks, seeing that taylor cleared the haylofts of old straw and aired them for the new crop. every year, in haying time and harvest, he gave his mill-wheels a rest. he believed the work in the open air was good for his health.
as he left the barn one morning, and was going through the negro quarters, he passed by the laundry cabin where nancy did fine laundering for the mistress. hearing voices within, the girl’s voice and his nephew’s, he stopped short by the rain-barrel and listened.
martin was speaking in a drawling, bantering way. “how about my fine shirts you were going to wash and iron for me, miss nancy till?”
“yes, sir. the mistress told me to. if you’ll please put ’em out in the hall for me, i’ll do ’em up today.”
“now look-a-here, my girl, you just hunt in the press and find them for yourself. i don’t keep account of my shirts. if you take care of my room, you look out for my washing. i ain’t my own chambermaid.”
the miller stepped forward and glanced in at the open door. nancy was at the ironing-board, her eyes fixed on her work. martin, in his riding breeches, was lounging on an old broken chair, his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him. his face was turned away, but his lordly, lazy attitude and the rough familiarity of his voice were not lost upon his uncle. colbert set his teeth and hurried through the yard down to the mill.
“sampson,” he called, “this fine weather won’t last much longer, maybe. i told taylor we would begin on the long meadow tomorrow, and you and me will go out with the men. it’ll likely be a hot day, and we must get to work early, before the grass is dry. the women can turn it afterward. you’ll have to go and hunt up the scythes. it’s taylor’s business, but he hasn’t done it. i could only find six, and there’ll be eight of us in the field.”
sampson smiled reassuringly. “i ‘specs i can find ’em, sir. the boys sneaks ’em away fur one thing an’ another. but i’ll find ’em.”
early the next morning mrs. blake’s little girls were awakened by the ringing sound of whetstones on scythe blades. the long meadow between their house and the mill was always the first field to be cut. the mowers had assembled down by the rail fence, where the sassafras bushes screened the field from back creek. the miller went round the group and felt the edge of every blade. “now, boys, i reckon we’re ready to begin. look out and keep the line straight.”
the darkies scattered to their places, spat into their palms, and gripped the hand-holds. colbert and sampson were in the centre, and after the master had cut the first swath the men threw themselves into the easy position of practised mowers, and the long grass began to fall. they advanced from east to west, steadily, like a good team at the plough. colbert allowed only the seasoned mowers to work with him; the young fellows he hired out in hay-time to learn under his neighbours. as the darkies swung their scythes, they made a deep sound from the chest, the “huh-huh” they made when they chopped wood; but they never paused except to spit into their hands.
the sun had been up several hours when the line of mowers got as far as the little iron spring which seeped up in the meadow, with a patch of tiger lilies growing round it. here the master beckoned the hands to come and take a drink. the water was cold and strongly flavoured with iron. the darkies passed the gourd around more than once, and stood easy; straightening their backs, and wiping their sweaty faces on shirt-sleeves already wringing wet. every man of them kept an old hat of some sort on his head. after they had rested a few minutes, they pulled up their breeches at the waist and went back to their places. when the line moved on, the black-spotted orange lilies stood straight and tall above the fallen grass.
by and by the men began to look up anxiously at the sun: only a little spell now. they kept in line, but they certainly advanced more slowly. a cheering “halloo” rang out across the field. the men stopped and straightened up with a grateful sigh, looking toward the mill house stile. yonder came young martin, carrying in each hand a gallon jug, and behind him came nancy and bluebell and nelly and trudy and little zach, all with baskets.
it was the custom for the mowers to have their dinner in the field. the scythes were left beside the swath last cut, and the hands gathered in the shade under a wide-spreading maple tree. in every hayfield one big tree was left for that purpose. it was always called “the mowers’ tree.”
after they had spread a red tablecloth on the grass and laid out the provisions, the women went away. the jugs martin had brought were full of cold tea. the master poured himself a full gourd, but the men drank from the jug, — it went round from mouth to mouth.
as they fell to their dinner, a pitiful figure of a negro came toward the group, not approaching directly, but circling to right and left and looking down in the grass as if he were hunting for some lost object. the darkies grinned and nudged one another. “dar’s tansy dave. ‘bout time he was drappin’ ‘long.”
the master spoke to sampson. “call him up, poor fellow.”
in a voice that was quiet and yet carried far, the yellow man called: “master says hurry up, dave, or there won’t be nothin’ left.”
the scarecrow man, bare-legged, his pants torn away to the knee, his shirt a dirty rag, approached slowly, his head hanging down. he muttered something about “been havin’ a sort-a spell lately, an’ didn’t know as he ought-a eat nothin’.”
the master spoke up: “this is a good dinner, dave. set down an’ eat all you want. we’ve got plenty.”
dave’s mournful face brightened as he looked hungrily at what was spread on the red cloth. he took the chunks of corn bread and fried middling meat sampson handed him, and drew apart from the others; just on the edge of the shade line he sat down and ate his food.
after dinner the hands lay under the tree and slept for an hour; lay on their backs, with their old hats over their faces. the miller sat leaning against the trunk and watched the ragged visitor steal across the mown field and hide himself in the sassafras bushes along the rail fence. he was thinking it was a dreary business to be responsible for other folks’ lives. time was when poor dave, that half-witted ghost of a man, was one of the happiest boys on the place. he and tap were the ringleaders in all the farm festivals. dave was very clever with his mouth-organ, and he used to play for the darkies to dance on the hard-packed earth in the back yard. it was six years now since he began to go to pieces.
six years ago a lady from baltimore, mrs. morrison, had come to board with a relative three miles down the creek. she brought with her her coloured maid, susanna, who used to come over to dance with the colbert darkies. she was a taking wench, with big soft eyes and an irresistible giggle — light on her feet, and a pretty dancer. colbert and sapphira sometimes went out to watch her dance, while dave played his mouth-organ, and the other darkies “patted” with their hands. dave always escorted her home. lizzie told the mistress that every night after supper dave changed his shirt and went down the creek to court susanna, and before he started he rolled over and over in the tansy bed, “to make hisself smell sweet.” the nickname “tansy dave” had stuck to him long after he ceased to go a-courting, and after he no longer tried to make hisself smell sweet.
when mrs. morrison was packing to go back to the city, dave came to sapphira and begged her to buy susanna, so that he could marry her. they were “promised,” he said, and susanna wanted to stay. at first his mistress laughed at him. but he cried like a little boy; threw himself on the floor and declared he “would run away and foller her if she was took off on the cars.” mrs. colbert was melted by the boy’s desperation; she told him to get up and behave himself, and she would think it over. she did think it over, and talked about it to henry that night. both agreed it would be foolish to buy another girl, when they had too many already. but early next morning sapphira wakened her husband to tell him she had decided to buy susanna if the woman would take a reasonable price for her. the girl was a good seamstress, and she could do all the fine sewing about the house.
sapphira ordered the carriage and drove away soon after breakfast. the miller doubted her success, but he said nothing. susanna’s mistress had once come to the baptist church, and he did not like her arrogant manner, or the look of her. she had a small, hard face, white as flour.
when sapphira returned, she sent down to the mill for her husband. she was greatly put out. the woman had told her at once that she thoroughly disapproved of slave-owning. when her late husband’s shipping interests took him from bath, maine, to baltimore, she had found it necessary to purchase two negroes for house service. in baltimore there was no other way to get good servants. she would not sell susanna at any price. the girl was trained for work in a town house. and after she got back to baltimore she would never think of this crazy nigger again.
susanna and her mistress left the neighbourhood, and dave ran away as he had threatened. he walked to winchester and got on the “cars.” when he reached harpers ferry and was told he must wait there for the big train that went on to washington, he lost heart. after a few days he came wandering home, but he was never the same boy again. he went from bad to worse; spent days, often weeks, in the mountains, wherever there was a still and moonshine whisky. nowadays he lived in the mountains the summer through. in the fall he came down to the mill to borrow sampson’s gun and go hunting. dave could perfectly imitate the call of the wild turkey, and he brought those wary birds home for the table; the mistress was very fond of them. colbert often wondered at sapphira’s forbearance with dave. when he traded his clothes for whisky and slunk home without a shirt to his back, she would make him go wash himself in the creek, burn his rags, and put on a whole pair of pants and a new “hickory” shirt. soon he would disappear again and not come back till winter. taylor was pretty sure to find him in the barn some morning after the first hard freeze, buried deep in the hay. sapphira saw that he was clothed and fed through the winter. even lizzie had pity on him, but she would not let him come into the kitchen to eat with the other hands. she filled a little bucket with victuals and handed it out to him.
the men finished cutting the long meadow before sundown. that night the miller excused himself early from the supper table, admitting that he was tired. he would “limber up” in a few days, he told his wife, but tonight his arms and back ached from unaccustomed exercise.
once in his room at the mill, he threw himself upon his bed and lay still, watching the lingering twilight die. he looked forward to the next two weeks, which would take the soreness out of his back and mind. it was good for him to be out in the fields; to feel his strength drunk up by the earth and sun, and to set the pace for younger men at cutting grass and wheat.
this was a troubled time for henry colbert when he was alone with his thoughts. he was too often preoccupied with what sampson had told him. now and then the actual realization of martin’s designs would flash into his mind. the poison in the young scamp’s blood seemed to stir something in his own. the colbert in him threatened to raise its head after long hibernation. not that he was afraid of himself. for nothing on earth, even by a glance, would he trouble that sweet confidence and affection which had been a comfort to him for so long. but it was not now the comforting thing it had been. now he tried to avoid nancy. her light step on the old ax-dressed boards of the mill floor, her morning smile, did not bring the lift of spirit they used to bring.
he told himself that in trying to keep a close watch on martin, he had begun to see through martin’s eyes. sometimes in his sleep that preoccupation with martin, the sense of almost being martin, came over him like a black spell.
how was he to get rid of the fellow? in those days, and in that country, a man could not put his nephew out of the house unless he had flagrantly outraged hospitality. the miller had thought seriously of trying to buy martin off. that seemed the likeliest possibility, though the approach would be awkward: offering a near kinsman money to clear out of the neighbourhood. nevertheless he had gone to winchester the week before the hay was ripe, and had drawn from the bank a larger sum of money than he customarily kept on hand. it was now locked in his secretary drawer. he liked to feel that it was there, ready.
before he undressed for the night colbert took from the shelf a book he often read, john bunyan’s holy war, — a copy printed in glasgow in 1763. he opened the book at a passage relating to the state of the town of mansoul after diabolus had entered her gates and taken up his rule there:
“also things began to grow scarce in mansoul: now the things that her soul lusted after were departing from her. upon all her pleasant things there was a blast, and a burning instead of a beauty. wrinkles now, and some shews of the shadow of death, were upon the inhabitants of mansoul. and now, o how glad would mansoul have been to enjoyed quietness and satisfaction of mind, though joined with the meanest condition in the world.”
next he turned to the pages describing the state of mansoul after she had been retaken and reclaimed by prince emmanuel, the son of god:
“when the town of mansoul had thus far rid themselves of their enemies, and of the troublers of their peace, a strict commandment was given out, that yet my lord willbewill, should search for, and do his best, to apprehend what diabolonians were yet alive in mansoul. . . . he also apprehended carnal-sense, and put him in hold; but how it came about i cannot tell, but he brake prison and made his escape; yea, and the bold villain will not yet quit the town, but lurks in the diabolonian dens at days, and haunts like a ghost, honest men’s houses at nights.”
in this book he found consolation. an honest man, who had suffered much, was speaking to him of things about which he could not unbosom himself to anyone.
