Dorothy South
For many of the services of a valet, Arthur had no use whatever. It was his habit, as he had long ago said, to “tie his own shoe strings.” He refused from the first very many of Dick’s proffered attentions. But he liked to have his boots thoroughly polished and his clothing well brushed. These things he allowed Dick to attend to. For the rest he made small use of him except to send him on errands.
The position suited Dick’s temperament and ambition thoroughly and he had no mind to let the outbreak of fever on the plantation rob him of it. When Arthur established himself at the quarantine camp, taking for his own a particularly small brush shelter, he presently found Dick in attendance, and seriously endeavoring to make himself useful. For the first time Arthur felt that the boy’s services were really of value to him. He was intelligent, quick-witted, and unusually accurate in the execution of orders. He could deliver a message precisely as it was given to him, and his “creative imagination” was kept well in hand when reporting to his master and when delivering his messages to others – particularly to those in attendance upon the sick. Arthur was busy night and day. He saw every patient frequently, and often he felt it necessary to remain all night by a bedside. In the early morning, before it was time for the field hands to go to their work in the crops, he inspected them at their new quarters, and each day, too, he rode over all the fields in which crop work was going on.
In all his goings Dick was beside him, except when sent elsewhere with messages. In the camp he kept his master supplied with fuel and cooked his simple meals for him, at whatever hours of the night or day the master found time to give attention to his personal wants.
In the meanwhile – after the worst of the epidemic was over – Dick made himself useful as an entertainer of the camp. Dick had developed capacities as a poet, and after the manner of Homer and other great masters of the poetic art, it was his custom to chant his verses to rudely fashioned melodies of his own manufacture. Unfortunately Dorothy, who took down Dick’s “Song Ballads,” as he called them, and preserved their text in enduring form, was wholly ignorant of music, as we know, and so the melodies of Dick are lost to us, as the melodies of Homer are. But in the one case as in the other, some at least of the poems remain to us.
Like all great poets, Dick was accustomed to find his inspiration in the life about him. Thus the fever outbreak itself seems to have suggested the following:
Nigga got de fevah,Nigga he most daid;Long come de Mahstah,Mahstah shake he haid.Mahstah he look sorry,Nigga fit to cry;Mahstah he say “Nebber min’,Git well by am by.”Mahstah po’ de medicine,Mix it in de cup,Nigga mos’ a chokin’As he drinks it up.Nigga he git well aginDen he steal de chicken,Den de Mahstah kotches himAn’ den he gits a lickin’.The simplicity and directness of statement here employed fulfil the first of the three requirements which John Milton declared to be essential to poetry of a high order, which, he tells us must be “simple, sensuous, passionate.” The necessary sensuousness is present also, in the reference made to the repulsiveness of the medicine. But that quality is better illustrated in another of Dick’s Song Ballads which runs as follows:
Possum up a ’simmon tree —Possum dunno nuffin,He nebber know how sweet and goodA possum is wid stuffin.Possum up a ’simmon tree —A eatin’ of de blossom,Up creeps de nigga an’It’s “good-by Mistah Possum.”Nigga at de tableA cuttin’ off a slice,An’ sayin’ to de chillun —“Possum’s mighty nice.”Here the reader will observe the instinctive dramatic skill with which the poet, having reached the climax of the situation, abruptly rings down the curtain, as it were. There is no waste of words in unnecessary explanations, no delaying of the action with needless comment. And at the end of the second stanza we encounter a masterly touch. Instead of telling us with prosaic literalness that the nigga succeeded in slaying his game, the poet suggests the entire action with the figurative phrase – “It’s ‘good-by, Mistah Possum.’ ”
There is a fine poetic reserve too in the abrupt shifting of the scene from tree to table, and the presentation of the denouement without other preparation than such as the reader’s imagination may easily furnish for itself. We are not told that the possum was dressed and cooked; even the presence of stuffing as an adjunct to the savor of the dish is left to be inferred from the purely casual suggestion made in the first stanza of the fact that stuffing tends to enrich as well as to adorn the viand.
These qualities and some others of a notable kind appear in the next example we are permitted to give of this poet’s work.
Ole crow flyin’ roun’ de fiel’,A lookin’ fer de cawn;Mahstah wid he shot gunA settin’ in de bawn.Ole crow see a skeer crowA standin’ in the cawn;Nebber see de MahstahA settin’ in de bawn.Ole crow say: – “De skeer crow,He ain’t got no gun, —Jes’ a lot o’ ole clo’esA standin’ in de sun;Ole crow needn’t min’ him,Ole crow git some cawn;But he nebber see de MahstahA settin’ in de bawn.Ole crow wuk like niggaA pullin’ up de cawn —Mahstah pull de trigga,Ober in de bawn.Ole crow flop an’ flutter —He’s done got it, sho’!Skeer crow shakin’ in he sleeveA laughin’ at de crow.There is a compactness of statement here – a resolute elimination of the superfluous which might well commend the piece to those modern theatrical managers who seem to regard dialogue as an impertinence in a play.
Sometimes the poet went even further and presented only the barest suggestion of the thought in his mind, leaving the reader to supply the rest. Such is the case in the poem next to be set down as an example, illustrative of the poet’s method. It consists of but a single stanza:
De day’s done gone, de wuk’s done done,An’ Mahstah he smoke he pipe;But nigga he ain’t done jes yit,Cause – de watermillion’s ripe.Here we have in four brief lines an entirely adequate suggestion of the predatory habits of “Nigga,” and of his attitude of mind toward “watermillions.” With the bare statement of the fact that the fruit in question has attained its succulent maturity, we are left to discover for ourselves the causal relation between that fact and the intimated purpose of “Nigga” to continue his activities during the hours of darkness. The exceeding subtlety of all this cannot fail to awaken the reader’s admiring sympathy.
Perhaps the most elaborately wrought out of these song ballads is the one which has been reserved for the last. Its text here follows:
Possum’s good an’ hoe cake’s fine,An’ so is mammy’s pies,But bes’ of all good t’ings to eatIs chickens, fryin’ size.How I lubs a moonlight nightWhen stars is in de skies!But sich nights ain’t no good to gitDe chickens, fryin’ size.De moonlight night is shiny bright,Jes’ like a nigga’s eyes,But dark nights is the bes’ to gitDe chickens, fryin’ size.When Mahstah he is gone to sleep,An’ black clouds hides de skies,Oh, den’s de time to crawl an’ creepFer chickens, fryin’ size.Fer den prehaps you won’t git kotchedNor hab to tell no lies,An’ mebbe you’ll git safe awayWid chickens, fryin’ size.But you mus’ look out sharp fer noiseAn’ hush de chicken’s cries,Fer mighty wakin’ is de squawksOf chickens, fryin’ size.To gross minds this abrupt, admonitory ending of the poem will be disappointing. It leaves the reader wishing for more – more chicken, if not more poetry. And yet in this self-restrained ending of the piece the poet is fully justified by the practice of other great masters of the poetic art. Who that has read Coleridge’s superb fragment “Kubla Khan,” does not long to know more of the “stately pleasure dome” and of those “caverns measureless to man” through which “Alph the sacred river ran, down to a sunless sea”?
We present these illustrative examples of Dick’s verse in full confidence that both his inspiration and his methods will make their own appeal to discriminating minds. If there be objection made to the somewhat irregular word forms employed by this poet, the ready answer is that the same characteristic marks many of the writings of Robert Burns, and that Homer himself employed a dialect. If it is suggested that Dick’s verbs are sometimes out of agreement with their nominatives, it is easy to imagine Dick contemptuously replying, “Who keers ’bout dat?”
XIV
DOROTHY’S AFFAIRS
A GOOD many things happened “endurin’ of the feveh” – if Dick’s expressive and by no means inapt phrase may again be employed.
First of all the outbreak gave Madison Peyton what he deemed his opportunity. It seemed to him to furnish occasion for that reconciliation with Aunt Polly which he saw to be necessary to his plans, and, still more important, it seemed to afford an opportunity for him to withdraw Dorothy from the influence of Dr. Arthur Brent.
Accordingly, as soon as news came to him of the epidemic, and of Arthur Brent’s heroic measures in meeting it, he hurried over to Wyanoke, full of confident plans.
“This is dreadful news, Cousin Polly,” he said, as soon as he had bustled into the house.
“What news, Madison?” answered the old lady. “What have you come to tell me?”
“Oh I mean this dreadful fever outbreak – it is terrible – ”
“I don’t know,” answered Aunt Polly, reflectively. “We have had only ten or a dozen cases so far, and you had three or four times that many at your quarters last year.”
“Oh, yes, but of course this is very much worse. You see Arthur has had to burn down all the quarters, and destroy all the clothing. He’s a scientific physician, you know, and – ”
“But all science is atheistic, Madison. You told me so yourself over at Osmore, and so of course you don’t pay any attention to Arthur’s scientific freaks.”
“Now you know I didn’t mean that, Cousin Polly,” answered Peyton, apologetically. “Of course Arthur knows all about fevers. You know how he distinguished himself at Norfolk.”
“Yes, I know, but what has that to do with this case?”
“Why, if this fever is so bad that a scientific physician like Arthur finds it necessary to burn all his negro quarters and build new ones, it must be very much worse than anything ever known in this county before. Nobody here ever thought of such extreme measures.”
“No, I suppose not,” answered Aunt Polly. “At any rate you didn’t do anything of the kind when an epidemic broke out in your quarters last year. But you had fourteen deaths and thus far we have had only one, and Arthur tells me he hopes to have no more. Perhaps if you had been a scientific physician, you too would have burned your quarters and moved your hands to healthier ones.”
This was a home shot, as Aunt Polly very well knew. For the physicians who had attended Peyton’s people, had earnestly recommended the destruction of his negro quarters and the removal of his people to a more healthful locality, and he had stoutly refused to incur the expense. He had ever since excused himself by jeering at the doctors and pointing, in justification of his neglect of their advice to the fact that in due time the epidemic on his plantation had subsided. He therefore felt the sting of Aunt Polly’s reference to his experience, and she emphasized it by adding:
“If you had done as Arthur has, perhaps you wouldn’t have so many deaths to answer for when Judgment Day comes!”
“Oh, that’s all nonsense, Cousin Polly,” he quickly responded. “And besides we’re wasting time. Of course you and Dorothy can’t remain here, exposed to this dreadful danger. So I’ve ordered my driver to bring the carriage over here for you this afternoon. You two must be our guests at least as long as the fever lasts at Wyanoke.”
Aunt Polly looked long and intently at Peyton. Then she slowly said:
“The Bible forbids it, Madison, though I never could see why.”
“Forbids what, Cousin Polly?”
“Why, it says we mustn’t call anybody a fool even when he is so, and I never could understand why.”
“But I don’t understand you, Cousin Polly – ”
“Of course you don’t. I didn’t imagine that you would. But that’s because you don’t want to.”
“But I protest, Cousin Polly, that I’ve come over only because I’m deeply anxious about your health and Dorothy’s. You simply mustn’t remain here.”
“Madison Peyton,” answered the old lady, rising in her stately majesty of indignation, “I won’t call you a fool because the Bible says I mustn’t. But it is plain that you think me one. You know very well that you’re not in the least concerned about my health. You know there hasn’t been a single case of fever in this house or within a mile of it. You know you never thought of removing your own family from your house when the fever was raging in your negro quarters. You know that I know what you want. You want to get Dorothy under your own control, by taking her to your house. Very well, I tell you you cannot do that. It would endanger the health of your own family, for Dorothy has been in our fever camp for two days and nights now, as head nurse and Arthur’s executive officer. Why do you come here trying to deceive me as if I were that kind of person that the Bible doesn’t allow me to call you? Isn’t it hard enough for me to do my duty in Dorothy’s case without that? Do you imagine I find it a pleasant thing to carry out my orders and train that splendid girl to be the obedient wife of such a booby as your son is? You are making a mistake. You tried once to intimidate me. You know precisely how far you succeeded. You are trying now to deceive me. You may guess for yourself what measure of success you are achieving. There are spirits in the sideboard, if you want something to drink after – well, after your ride. I must ask you to excuse me now, as I have to go to the prize barn to superintend the work of the sewing women.”
With that the irate old lady courtesied low, in mock respect, and took her departure, escorted by her maid.
Madison Peyton was angry, of course. That, indeed is a feeble and utterly inadequate term with which to describe his state of mind. He felt himself insulted beyond endurance – and that, probably, was what Aunt Polly intended that he should feel. But he was baffled in his purpose also, and he knew not how to endure that. He was not a coward. Had Aunt Polly been a man he would instantly have called her to account for her words. Had she been a young woman, he would have challenged her brother or other nearest male relative. As it was he had only the poor privilege of meditating such vengeance as he might wreak in sly and indirect ways. He was moved to many things, as he madly galloped away, but one after another each suggested scheme of vengeance was abandoned as manifestly foolish, and with the abandonment of each his chagrin grew greater and his anger increased. When he met his carriage on its way to Wyanoke in obedience to the orders he had given in the morning, he became positively frantic with rage, so that the driver and the black boy who rode behind the vehicle grew ashen with terror as the carriage was turned about in its course, and took up its homeward way.
A few weeks later the court met, and a message was sent to Aunt Polly directing her to bring Dorothy before the judge for the purpose of having her choose a guardian. When Dorothy was notified of this she sent Dick with a note to Col. Majors, the lawyer. It was not such a note as a young woman more accustomed than she to the forms of life and law would have written. It ran as follows:
“Dear Col. Majors: – Please tell the judge I can’t come. Poor Sally is very, very ill and I mustn’t leave her for a moment. The others need me too, and I’ve got a lot of work to do putting up prescriptions – for I’m the druggist, you know. So tell the judge he must wait till he comes to this county next time. Give my love to Mrs. Majors and dear Patty.
“Sincerely yours,“Dorothy South.”On receipt of this rather astonishing missive, Colonel Majors smiled and in his deliberate way ordered his horse to be brought to him after dinner. Riding over to Wyanoke he “interviewed” Dorothy at the fever camp.
He explained to the wilful young lady the mandatory character of a court order, particularly in the case of a ward in chancery.
“But why can’t you do the business for me?” she asked. “I tell you Sally is too ill for me to leave her.”
“But you must, my dear. In any ordinary matter I, as your counsel, could act for you, but in this case the court must have you present in person, because you are to make choice of a guardian and the court must be satisfied that you have made the choice for yourself and that nobody else has made it for you. So you simply must go. If you don’t the court will send the sheriff for you, and then it will punish Miss Polly dreadfully for not bringing you.”
This last appeal conquered Dorothy’s resistance. If only herself had been concerned she would still have insisted upon having her own way. But the suggestion that such a course might bring dire and dreadful “law things,” as she phrased it, upon Aunt Polly appalled her, and she consented.
“How long shall I have to leave poor Sally?” she asked.
“Only an hour or two. You and Miss Polly can leave here in your carriage about ten o’clock and as soon as you get to the Court House I’ll ask the judge to suspend other business and bring your matter on. He will ask you whom you choose for your guardian, and you will answer ‘Madison Peyton.’ Then the judge will ask you if you have made your choice without compulsion or influence on the part of anybody else, and you will answer ‘yes.’ Then he will politely bid you good morning, and you can drive back to Wyanoke at once.”
“Is that exactly how the thing is done?” she asked, with a peculiar look upon her face.
“Exactly. You see it will give you no trouble.”
“Oh, no! I don’t mind anything except leaving Sally. Tell the judge I’ll come.”
Col. Majors smiled at this message, but made no answer, except to say:
“I’ll be there of course, and you can sit by me and speak to me if you wish to ask any question.”
The lawyer made his adieux and rode away. Dorothy, with a peculiar smile upon her lips returned to her patients.
XV
DOROTHY’S CHOICE
T HE judge himself was not so stately or so imposing of presence as was Aunt Polly, when she and Dorothy entered the court, escorted by Col. Majors. Dorothy was entirely self possessed, as it was her custom to be under all circumstances. “When people feel embarrassed,” she once said, “it must be because they know something about themselves that they are afraid other people will find out.” As Dorothy knew nothing of that kind about herself, she had no foolish trepidation, even in the solemn presence of a court.
The judge ordered her case called, and speaking very gently explained to her what was wanted.
“You are a young girl under the age at which the law supposes you to be capable of managing your own affairs. The law makes it the duty of this Court to guard you and your estate against every danger. By his will your father wisely placed your person in charge of an eminently fit and proper lady, whose character and virtues this Court and the entire community in which we live, hold in the highest esteem and honour.” At this point the judge profoundly bowed to Aunt Polly, and she acknowledged the courtesy with stately grace. The judge then continued:
“By his will your father also placed the estate which he left to you, in charge of the late Mr. Robert Brent, a gentleman in every possible way worthy of the trust. Thus far, therefore, this Court has had no occasion to take action of any kind in your behalf or for your protection. Unhappily, however, your guardian, the late Robert Brent, has passed away, and it becomes now the duty of this Court to appoint some fit person in his stead as guardian of your estate. The Court has full authority in the matter. It may appoint whomsoever it chooses for this position of high responsibility. But it is the immemorial custom of the Court in cases where the ward in chancery has passed his or her sixteenth year – an age which you have attained – to permit the ward to make choice of a guardian for himself or herself, as the case may be. If the ward is badly advised, and selects a person whom the Court deems for any reason unfit, the Court declines to make the appointment asked, and itself selects some other. But if the person selected by the ward is deemed fit, the Court is pleased to confirm the choice. It is now my duty to ask you, Miss Dorothy, what person you prefer to have for guardian of your estate.”
“May I really choose for myself?” asked the girl in a clear and perfectly calm voice, to the astonishment of everybody.
“Certainly, Miss Dorothy. Whom do you choose?”
“Did my father say in his will that I must choose some particular person?” she continued, interrogating the Court as placidly as she might have put questions to Aunt Polly.
“No, my dear young lady. Your father’s will lays no injunction whatever upon you respecting this matter.”
“Then, if you please, I choose Dr. Arthur Brent for my guardian. May we go now?”
No attention was given to the naive question with which the girl asked permission to withdraw. Her choice of guardian was a complete surprise. There was astonishment on every face except that of the judge, who officially preserved an expression of perfect self-possession. Even Aunt Polly was astounded, and she showed it. It had been understood by everybody that Madison Peyton was to succeed to Dorothy’s guardianship, and the submission of the choice to her had been regarded as a matter of mere form. Even to Aunt Polly the girl had given no slightest intimation of her purpose to defeat the prearranged program, and so Aunt Polly shared the general surprise. But Aunt Polly was distinctly pleased with the substitution as soon at least as she had given it a moment’s thought. She had come to like Arthur Brent even more in his robust manhood than she had done during his boyish sojourn at Wyanoke. She had learned also to respect his judgment, and she saw clearly, now that it was suggested, that he was obviously the best person possible to assume the office of guardian. She was pleased, too, with Madison Peyton’s discomfiture. “He needed to have his comb cut,” she reflected in homely metaphor. “It may teach him better manners.”
As for Peyton, who was present in Court, having come for the purpose of accepting the guardianship, his rage exceeded even his astonishment. He had in his youth gone through what was then the easy process of securing admission to the bar, and so, although he had never pretended to practise law, he was entitled to address the Court as an attorney. He had never done so before, but on this occasion he rose, almost choking for utterance and plunged at once into a passionate protest, in which the judge, who was calm, presently checked him, saying:
“Your utterance seems to the Court to be uncalled for, while its manner is distinctly such as the Court must disapprove. The person named by the ward as her choice for the guardianship, bears a high reputation for integrity, intelligence and character. Unless it can be shown to the Court that this reputation is undeserved, the ward’s choice will be confirmed. At present the Court is aware of nothing whatever in Dr. Brent’s character, circumstances or position that can cast doubt upon his fitness. If you have any information that should change the Court’s estimate of his character you will be heard.”
“He is unfit in every way,” responded the almost raving man. “He has deliberately undermined my fatherly influence over the girl. He has taken a mean advantage of me. He has overpersuaded the girl to set aside an arrangement made for her good and – ”
“Oh, no, Mr. Peyton,” broke in Dorothy, utterly heedless of court formalities, “he has done nothing of the kind. He knows nothing about this. I don’t think he will even like it.”
“Pardon me, Miss Dorothy,” interrupted the judge. “Please address the Court – me – and not Mr. Peyton. Tell me, have you made your choice of your own free will?”
“Why, certainly, Judge, else I wouldn’t have made it.”
“Has anybody said anything to you on the subject?”
“No, sir. Nobody has ever mentioned the matter to me except Col. Majors, and he told me I was to choose Mr. Peyton, but you told me I could choose for myself, you know. I suppose Col. Majors didn’t know you’d let me do that.”
A little laugh went up in the bar, and even the judge smiled. Presently he said:
