The Strength of Gideon | Page 4

Then they walked back
hand in hand to the dance along the transfigured road, and they found
that the first part of the festivities were over, and all the people had sat
down to supper. Every one laughed when they went in. Martha held
back and perspired with embarrassment. But even though he saw some
of the older heads whispering in a corner, Gideon was not ashamed. A
new light was in his eyes, and a new boldness had come to him. He led
Martha up to the grinning group, and said in his best singing voice,
"Whut you laughin' at? Yes, I's popped de question, an' she says 'Yes,'
an' long 'bout a yeah f'om now you kin all 'spec' a' invitation." This was
a formal announcement. A shout arose from the happy-go-lucky people,
who sorrowed alike in each other's sorrows, and joyed in each other's
joys. They sat down at a table, and their health was drunk in cups of

cider and persimmon beer.
Over in the corner Mam' Henry mumbled over her pipe, "Wha'd I tell
you? wha'd I tell you?" and Aunt Sophy replied, "Hit's de pa'able of de
mo'nin' stahs."
"Don't talk to me 'bout no mo'nin' stahs," the mammy snorted; "Gawd
jes' fitted dey voices togeddah, an' den j'ined dey hea'ts. De mo'nin'
stahs ain't got nothin' to do wid it."
"Mam' Henry," said Aunt Sophy, impressively, "you's a' oldah ooman
den I is, an' I ain' sputin' hit; but I say dey done 'filled Scripter 'bout de
mo'nin' stahs; dey's done sung deyse'ves togeddah."
The old woman sniffed.
The next Sunday at meeting some one got the start of Gideon, and
began a new hymn. It ran:
"At de ma'ige of de Lamb, oh Lawd, God done gin His 'sent. Dey
dressed de Lamb all up in white, God done gin His 'sent. Oh, wasn't dat
a happy day, Oh, wasn't dat a happy day, Good Lawd, Oh, wasn't dat a
happy day, De ma'ige of de Lamb!"
The wailing minor of the beginning broke into a joyous chorus at the
end, and Gideon wept and laughed in turn, for it was his wedding-song.
The young man had a confidential chat with his master the next
morning, and the happy secret was revealed.
"What, you scamp!" said Dudley Stone. "Why, you've got even more
sense than I gave you credit for; you've picked out the finest girl on the
plantation, and the one best suited to you. You couldn't have done
better if the match had been made for you. I reckon this must be one of
the marriages that are made in heaven. Marry her, yes, and with a
preacher. I don't see why you want to wait a year."
Gideon told him his hopes of a near cabin.

"Better still," his master went on; "with you two joined and up near the
big house, I'll feel as safe for the folks as if an army was camped
around, and, Gideon, my boy,"--he put his arms on the black man's
shoulders,--"if I should slip away some day--"
The slave looked up, startled.
"I mean if I should die--I'm not going to run off, don't be alarmed--I
want you to help your young Mas' Dud look after his mother and Miss
Ellen; you hear? Now that's the one promise I ask of you,--come what
may, look after the women folks." And the man promised and went
away smiling.
His year of engagement, the happiest time of a young man's life, began
on golden wings. There came rumors of war, and the wings of the
glad-hued year drooped sadly. Sadly they drooped, and seemed to fold,
when one day, between the rumors and predictions of strife, Dudley
Stone, the old master, slipped quietly away out into the unknown.
There were wife, daughter, son, and faithful slaves about his bed, and
they wept for him sincere tears, for he had been a good husband and
father and a kind master. But he smiled, and, conscious to the last,
whispered to them a cheery good-bye. Then, turning to Gideon, who
stood there bowed with grief, he raised one weak finger, and his lips
made the word, "Remember!"
They laid him where they had laid one generation after another of the
Stones and it seemed as if a pall of sorrow had fallen upon the whole
place. Then, still grieving, they turned their long-distracted attention to
the things that had been going on around, and lo! the ominous
mutterings were loud, and the cloud of war was black above them.
It was on an April morning when the storm broke, and the plantation,
master and man, stood dumb with consternation, for they had hoped,
they had believed, it would pass. And now there was the buzz of men
who