Ole Mammys Torment | Page 6

he had come home from a Northern college with his diploma and his degree.
"He have fought a good fight," said Uncle Billy in conclusion, finishing as usual with a scriptural quotation. "He have fought a good fight, and he have finished his co'se, but"--here his voice sank almost to a whisper--"he have come home to die."
A chill seemed to creep all over John Jay's warm little body. He raised his head from the pillow to listen still more carefully.
"Yes, they say he got the gallopin' consumption while he was up Nawth, shovellin' snow an' such work, an' studyin' nights in a room 'thout no fiah. He took ole Mars's name an' he have brought honah upon it, but what good is it goin' to do him? Tell me that. For when the leaves go in the autumn time, then Jintsey's boy must go too."
"Where's he stayin' at now?" demanded Mammy sharply, although she drew the corner of her apron across her eyes.
"He's down to Mars' Nat's at the toll-gate cottage. 'Peahs like it's the natch'el place for him to be. Neithah of 'em's got anybody else, and it's kind a like old times when they was chillun, play in' round the big house togethah. I stopped in to see him yestiddy. The cup Mis' Alice gave him was a-settin' on the mantel, an' Mars' Nat was stewin' up some sawt of cough tonic for him. The white folks up Nawth must a thought a heap of him. He'd just got a lettah from one of the college professahs 'quirin' bout his health. Mars' Nat read out what was on the back of it: 'Rev'und Gawge W. Chadwick, an' some lettahs on the end that I kain't remembah. An' he said, laughin'-like, sezee, 'well, Uncle Billy, you'd nevah take that as meanin' Jintsey's boy, would you now? It's a mighty fine soundin' title,' sezee. Gawge gave a little moanful sawt of smile, same as to say, well, aftah all, it wasn't wuth what it cost him. An' it wasn't! No, it wasn't," repeated Uncle Billy, solemnly shaking the ashes from his pipe. "What's the good of a head full of book learnin' with a poah puny body that kaint tote it around?"
Somehow, Uncle Billy's solemn declaration, "he have fought a good fight," associated this colored preacher, in John Jay's simple little mind, with soldiers and fierce battles and a great victory. He lay back on his pillow, wishing they would go on talking about this man who had suddenly become such a hero in his boyish eyes. But their talk gradually drifted to the details of Mrs. Watson's last illness. He had heard them so many times that he soon felt his eyelids slowly closing. Then he dozed for a few minutes, awakening with a start. They had gotten as far as the funeral now, and were discussing the sermon. They would soon be commenting on the way that each member of the family "took her death." That was so much more interesting, he thought he would just close his eyes again for a moment, until they came to that.
Their voices murmured on in a pleasing flow; his head sunk lower on the pillow, and his breathing was a little louder. Then his hand dropped down at his side. He was sound asleep just when Aunt Susan was about to begin one of her most thrilling ghost stories.
In the midst of an account of "a ha'nt that walked the graveyard every thirteenth Friday in the year," John Jay turned over in his sleep with a little snort. Aunt Susan nearly jumped out of her chair, and Uncle Billy dropped his pipe. There was a moment of frightened silence till Mammy said, "It must have been Bud, I reckon. John Jay is allus a-knockin' him in his sleep an' makin' him holler out. Go on, sis' Susan."
The moon had travelled well across the sky when Mammy's guests said good night. She lingered outside after they had gone, to look far down the road, where a single point of light, shining through the trees, marked the toll-gate. It would not be so lonely for Mars' Nat, now that George had come home. She recalled the laughing face of the little black boy as she had known it long ago, and tried to call up in her imagination a picture of the man that Uncle Billy had described. Visions of the old days rose before her. As she stood there with her hands wrapped in her apron, it was not the moon-flooded night she looked into, but the warm, living daylight of a golden past.
At last, with a sigh, she turned to take the chairs into the house. Lifting the big rocker high in front of her, she stepped over the threshold and started