University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
MORE OF THE SPIRITUAL.

And thus did these simple women discourse to each other of
a subject, from which philosophy is apt to shrink afraid, yet in
which the whole heart of humanity must always take the profoundest
interest.

And thus discoursing they retired for the night — but not to
sleep, not soon at least. Their fancies had been set to work
upon a problem which does not let one sleep easily or immediately;
one of those problems which exercise a strangely fascinating
power over the human heart and the imagination, beginning
with the trembling urchin by the evening fireside, nor
altogether foregoing the grave and slippered pantaloon in his
easy chair in the wintry twilight of life.

When they had been but a few minutes in bed — they slept
together — Nelly said, somewhat abruptly:—

“Mother Ford, I once saw my own mother.”

“Well, you could hardly remember her, my child. You were
but a very leetle creature when she died.”

“I did not remember her, mother? But I saw her — the very
night after I went home with Lady Nelson.”

“You saw your mother. But how did you know 'twas your
mother?”

“Oh! something seemed to tell me so. I knew her as soon
as I saw her, and she was very beautiful. And she was clad
in a garment of light, and it was the lightness from her that let
me see, for there was no other light in the room. And I held
my breath. I was not scared. I saw that she looked pleasantly
at me, but she said nothing — only looked so sweetly.”

“And how long did she stay.”

“Oh! some time, mother — some time. And she did not disappear
till Bettie came up stairs bringing the candle. It was
not till I could distinguish the light of the candle under the
door, that her light disappeared; but I saw her plainly till
then.”

“Well, I reckon you did see your mother, child. And I
reckon she is a good angel now, and there's no reason why the
good angels shouldn't be let to see their offspring. And who
can tell the amount of good which that sight did you, making
you think constantly of the beautiful things of God, that we are
always a-forgetting in the bad bitter ways of this good-for-nothing
world. Ah! child, I reckon 'twould be better for all of us,
ef we were now and then let to see a good smiling sperrit from
heaven.”

“But, mother, when I told Jeff Rhodes, that I saw him kill
an angel, he laughed at me, and called me mad.”

“'Twas like him! It stands to reason, child, that the man
who would kill a person, would not be willing to believe in his
sperrit, for I reckon you mean the sperrit of the man that was
killed, when you say his angel.”

He looked to me like an angel, mother, though he had no wings;
yet he was lifted up in air, just over the body, and above the
bushes where the body was lying, and Jeff Rhodes was then
taking away all the money that the man had about him.”

“Of course a man was killed — murdered by Jeff Rhodes;
but you did not see his body.”

“No! I knew where Jeff Rhodes was hiding on the edge
of the bay. He did not know that I was near him. He was
armed with his rifle. He fired, and then I heard a horse running
away, and just afterward I saw him, and he had no rider. And
Jeff Rhodes darted out of the bay, and I saw him now and then
lift himself above the bushes; and 'twas over his head, I saw a
faint smoke rising, and it hung above him not twenty feet high.
And it grew thicker, and soon I saw the shape of a young man
in the smoke. It was a pale face, and looking very mournful,
and his hands were drooping down at first, then afterward lifted.
And so the figure rose and rose, till suddenly, it disappeared
wholly from sight.”

“Gone upward! Well God be praised the soul warn't lost,
though the poor human was murdered — took all of a sudden,
without a minute given to fall upon his knees. No doubt,
Nelly, Jeff Rhodes did a cruel murder that day, but 'twas a
man, not an angel, Nelly, that he murdered. He called you
crazy, child, because you said an angel. But I reckon he feels
well enough that you are knowing to his murder of the man;
and sooner than you should tell of it, Nelly, he will murder you.
So keep away from him, child. He'll be the death of you, if he
can get a chance to do it and no one see. So, as you valley
your life don't go among his gang agin.”

“But Mat! How am I ever to get him from their snares and
dangers if I do not go among them.”

“Nelly, my child, it's not in you, or any of the gifts you've
got, to git that poor boy out of their clutches. The boy is weak
and has a nateral hankering after temptation. The love of the
sin is in him. That's the mischief. The devil's got a place in
his heart where he hides snug, and sends out his p'ison through
all the heart. It's gradual, but it works. It's slow, but mighty
sure. 'Tain't Jeff Rhodes only that's the tempter. It's the
devil in his own heart.”

“Oh! mother, mother, but this is too terrible. You don't
know Mat. He always listens to me. He acknowledges it's
true what I tell him, and when I'm with him, he'll do as I bid
him. Mat's not naturally wicked.”

“As if all men warn't wicked. He's like the rest, having a
mighty great hankering after sin. He knows it to be sin, but
the sin's too sweet, and he too weak, and he gives in to the
temptation. He keeps up smooth talking with you, sence
you're his own nateral born sister, and he has sense enough, and
jist feeling enough to know that you love him and talk for his
good. But every day the sin gits stronger, and the soul gits
weaker, and your words are jist so much wind, flying here
and there, and never moving him one side or t'other. In a
leetle time, Nelly dear, he won't listen to you at all. The
greedy after gould, and the thirsty after blood's, both growing
upon him, and in Jeff Rhodes's hands, he'll be mighty soon jist
sich a scholerd as his master. Oh! tell me nothing, Nelly
Floyd, of Mat Floyd. Nothing that you kin do kin save him.

He's easy to hear, perhaps, but hard to hold. Ef you can skear
him off from Rhodes, that's your only chaince. The boy, on-happily
kin be skeared, but he kain't be palavered.”

“But surely, mother, the dreadful appearance that I have
seen — the gallows and the halter; surely that is a picture to
fright him from his path.”

“Does it.”

“Yes! He feels it, fears it, trembles at it, and — believes it.”

“Spose! And jest as your back's turned he forgits it all.
Jeff Rhodes puts his finger to his eye, and roars with laughter
as if to split. And Mat's satisfied that his sister dream'd it only
and seed it in her dream, and that his sister's only a crazy fool
with her inventions. And he's glad to believe you're crazy, for
if he didn't, he'd be worried. And he don't like to think of
the danger. And he's too well pleased to be all the time thinking
of the temptation. I reckon you kin skear him jest while
you're a-talking to him by yourself; for, sartinly, it's a most
terrible vision for mortal eye to see — a woman's eye, too — to
see an own dear brother going to the gallows, dragged up and
swung off, and — Lord! Lord! it's a most awsome gift that of
your'n! a most awful gift. And you've seen that murderous
vision more than once?”

“Twice, thrice, many times. I know not how many.”

“And always in the daytime, you say?”

“Yes! always!”

“And always jest in the same sort of place?”

“Yes! I should know it were I to see it a hundred years
hence — a dark wood — all pines — except on the edge of the
bay, and that's of thick undergrowth. There's a creek near,
and a boat, and — oh! me, there it is now — it rises before me
as I speak. I see it all. There is a crowd of men. They
drag him off. It is a British officer that commands — a captain,
but I can not see his face — I never see his face. Why don't
I see that officer's face, mother! Ah! ah! They draw him
up — he swings. Oh! mother, mother, it is over — it is gone!
All is dark, dark, dark!”

And she buried her face in the pillow, sobbing with terror,
while the old woman wraps her withered arms about her, and
draws her up tenderly to her bosom.

“It's the thing working in your mind, Nelly dear; I reckon
it was a dream first time you saw it, and a'terward it worked in
your brain, till the vision seemed to rise before your sight, just
as you had seen it in your dreams. You see, now, it appears to
you this time at night. 'Tain't with your natural eyes that you
seed anything here, for all's dark as pitch. There ain't the sign
of a spark in the chimney. It's in your brain, Nelly dear, that
the thing is working. It comes from too much thinking upon
it, Nelly, and—”

“I don't know, mother — I don't know! It seems to stand
out clear before my eyes. All stands out distinctly — the scene
— the soldiers — all are soldiers — all are visible — clear to my
sight — as if they were living and acting in the broad daylight.
I see their faces too, Ned's face, and all but one. The officer's
face I can't see. His back is always to me. I watch with all
my eyes to see; for there is something about his figure that I
seem to know. He's in rich green uniform, and he's tall and
slender. He's young — that I'm sure! But I can't, with all
my trying, and praying, get a sight of his face. He's looking
at Mat, and Mat looks at him very fearful! And I can see the
officer lift his hand and wave him off, and turn away, and go
off, while the soldiers hale my poor brother to the tree. And
then all's dark, dark and horrible.”

“That's all mighty curious. It's curious that you kain't see
the face of the commanding officer; and it's curious that Mat
should be hung up by the British, when he's upon their side.”

“Ah! mother, that's the worst of it. So long as Mat keeps
with Jeff Rhodes he's on no side—”

“Yes — the old devil!” exclaimed the aged woman vehemently.
“If the boy ain't got away from sich a leader, he
stands a chaince of being run up by all parties, red-coats and
blue, any one that first catches him at his tricks.”

“And what's to be done, mother?”

“What kin be done, child, by two sich poor creatures as we?
I'm too old, and you too young, and we're both women. Ef
'twas safe for you to be in Jeff Rhodes' camp, even for a minute,
I'd say, go, and try your best! But it's not safe. Ef Jeff
Rhodes knows that you seed him murder a man, he'll be sure to

murder you, the very first chaince! You kain't go to his camp,
Nelly.”

“But I must try and save Mat, mother.”

“In course, ef you kin! But, Nelly, child, ef you air to go
to Jeff Rhodes's camp, see that he never knows of it. You're
quick to move, and keen to see, and kin ride fast, and steal
about softly; and you'll hav' to practise all your cunning, to see
Mat onbeknowing to Jeff Rhodes, and the others in camp.
You kin no more trust one than t'other. You kin no more trust
Molly Rhodes — though she's your hafe-sister — than you kin
trust Jeff. She'd whine about you for awhile, ef anything happened
to you, but she'd never eat one bit the less that night, of
her 'lowance. The bacon and hoecake would set as light upon
her stomach, Nelly, though she made a supper-table of your
coffin, as it ever did at any supper in her life. She's as cold as
a snake in December, and jist as full of p'ison. And the fellows
Jeff Rhodes has got about him — Nat Rhodes, and the
rest — they're all jist so many tools of the devil, all greased
and sharpened, and ready for use, in his hands, whenever he's
wanting to cut a throat or pick a pocket; and when is he not
wanting them for some sich business? Better never let any one
of 'em set eyes upon you ef you goes to their camp. Better
never go at all.”

“And leave poor Mat to his doom — his danger!”

“What God writes in the sky, my child, is law for airth; and
it will sartinly come to pass. Ef it's showd you that Mat Floyd
is under doom and sentence, I reckon 'twon't be anything that
you kin say, or do, that'll save him. And when, at the same
time, the devil is a writing his law upon the boy's heart, then,
I reckon, the thing's past all disputing.”

“I will try for him, mother, though there were a thousand
devils!” exclaimed the wild girl with sudden energy. “I have
rescued him this night already from the gallows! I will save
him again. He shall not perish in his sins!”

“It's a brave sperrit, child, and a good; and may the blessed
Lord help you in what you hopes to do.”

“He will! he will! But enough to-night, mother. I must
try and sleep now.”

“I reckon you needs it, child. God bless your sleep, and

protect your waking. Sleep, ef you kin. 'Tain't much of this
night that's left you for sleeping, and I reckon there won't be
much sleep for my old eyes now, sence you've set my old brains
so hard to working. But I'll shet up, and let you sleep.”

The night, in truth, was very nearly gone, and the hovel lay
in silence till the dawn. With the first streak of day, indicated
by the shrill clarion of one long-legged rooster in the fowl-yard,
the old woman silently arose, and proceeded to her customary
exercises. But Nelly Floyd slept on — softly and it might be
sweetly — but the grandame every now and then detected a
faint moaning escaping through her parted lips, as of a sorrow
that still kept wakeful — such a moaning as lapses over the sea
after a storm!