University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
THE SEXTON.

The Methodist Society of Laurel Hill had built them
a new church upon the corner of the common, and as a
mark of respect, had made black John their sexton. Perfectly
delighted with the office, he discharged his duties
faithfully, particularly the ringing of the bell, in which
accomplishment he greatly excelled his Episcopal rival,
who tried to imitate his peculiar style in vain. No one
could make such music as the negro, or ring so many
changes. In short, it was conceded that on great occasions,
he actually made the old bell talk; and one day,
toward the last of September, and five months after the
events of the preceding chapter, an opportunity was presented
for a display of his skill.

The afternoon was warm and sultry, and, overcome by
the heat, the village loungers had disposed of themselves,
some on the long piazza of the hotel, and others in front
of the principal store, where, with elevated heels and busy
jackknives, they whittled out shapeless things, or made
remarks concerning any luckless female who chanced to
pass. While thus engaged, they were startled by a loud,
sharp ring from the belfry of the Methodist church, succeeded
by a merry peal, which seemed to proclaim some
joyful event. It was a musical, rollicking ring, consisting
of three rapid strokes, the last prolonged a little, as if to
give it emphasis.

“What's up now?” the loungers said to each other,
as the three strokes were repeated in rapid succession.
“What's got into John?” and those who were fortunate
enough to own houses in the village, went into the street
to assure themselves there was no fire.

“It can't be a toll,” they said. “It's too much like a
dancing tune for that,” and as the sound continued, they
walked rapidly to the church, where they found the
African bending himself with might and main to his task,
the perspiration dripping from his sable face, which was
all aglow with happiness.

It was no common occasion which had thus affected
John, and to the eager questioning of his audience, he
replied, “Can't you hear the ding—dong—de-el. Don't
you know what it says? Listen now,” and the bell again
rang forth the three short sounds. But the crowd still
professed their ignorance, and, pausing a moment, John
said, with a deprecating manner: “I'll tell you the first
word, and you'll surely guess the rest: it's `Maude.'
Now try 'em,” and wiping the sweat from his brow, he
turned again to his labor of love, nodding his head with
every stroke.

“No ear at all for music,” he muttered, as he saw they
were as mystified as ever, and in a loud, clear voice, he
sang, “Maude can-see-e! Maude can-see-e!!”

It was enough. Most of that group had known and
respected the blind girl, and joining at once in the negro's
enthusiasm, they sent up a deafening shout for “Maude
De Vere, restored to sight.”

John's face at that moment was a curiosity, so divided
was it between smiles and tears, the latter of which won
the mastery, as with the last hurrah the bell gave one

tremendous crash, and he sank exhausted upon the floor,
saying to those who gathered round, “Will 'em hear that,
think, in France?”

“How do you know it is true?” asked one, and John
replied, “she writ her own self to tell it, and sent her
love to me; think of dat—sent her love to an old nigger!”
and John glanced at the bell, as if he intended a repetition
of the rejoicings.

Surely Maude De Vere, across the sea, never received a
greater tribute of respect than was paid to her that day
by the warm-hearted John, who, the moment he heard the
glad news, sped away to proclaim it from the church-tower.
The letter had come that afternoon, and, as John
said, was written by Maude herself. The experiment had
been performed weeks before, but she would wait until
assurance was doubly sure, ere she sent home the joyful
tidings. It was a wonderful cure, for the chance of success
was small, but the efforts used in her behalf had
succeeded, and she could see again.

“But what of Louis?” asked Dr. Kennedy, who was
listening while his wife read to him the letter. “What of
Louis? Have they done any thing for him?”

“They had tried, but his deformity could not be helped,”
and with a pang of disappointment the father was turning
away, when something caught his ear, which caused
him to listen again.

“You don't know,” Maude wrote, “how great a lion
Louis is getting to be. He painted a picture of me just
as I looked that dreadful morning when I stood in the
sunshine and felt that I was blind. It is a strange, wild
thing, but its wildness is relieved by the angel-faced boy
who looks up at me so pityingly. Louis is perfect, but

Maude—oh! I can scarce believe that she ever wore that
expression of fierce despair. Strange as it may seem, this
picture took the fancy of the excitable French, and ere
Louis was aware of it, he found himself famous. They
come to our rooms daily to see le petit artist, and many
ask for pictures or sketches, for which they pay an exorbitant
price. One wealthy American gentleman brought
him a daguerreotype of his dead child, with the request
that he would paint from it a life-sized portrait, and if he
succeed in getting a natural face, he is to receive five hundred
dollars. Think of little Louis Kennedy earning five
hundred dollars, for he will succeed. The daguerreotype
is much like Nellie, which will make it easier for Louis.”

This was very gratifying to Dr. Kennedy, who that day
more than once repeated to himself, “Five hundred dollars:
it's a great deal of money for him to earn; maybe
he'll soon be able to help me, and mercy knows I shall
soon need it if that woman continues her unheard-of extravagances.
More city company to-morrow, and I heard
her this morning tell that Jezebel in the kitchen to put
the whites of sixteen eggs into one loaf of cake. What am
I coming to?” and Dr. Kennedy groaned in spirit as he
walked through the handsome apartments, seeking in vain
for a place where he could sit and have it seem as it used
to do, when the rocking-chair which Matty had brought
stood invitingly in the middle of the room, where now a
centre-table was standing, covered with books and ornaments
of the most expensive kind.

Since last we looked in upon her Maude Glendower had
ruled with a high hand. She could not live without excitement,
and rallying from her grief at parting with her
child, she plunged at once into repairs, tearing down and

building up, while her husband looked on in dismay.
When they were about it, she said, they might as well
have all the modern improvements, and water, both hot
and cold, was accordingly carried to all the sleeping apartments,
the fountain-head being a large spring, distant from
the house nearly half a mile. Gas she could not have,
though the doctor would hardly have been surprised had
she ordered the laying of pipes from Rochester to Laurel
Hill, so utterly reckless did she seem. She was fond of
company, and as she had visited every body, so every
body in return must visit her, she said, and toward the
last of summer she filled the house with city people, who
vastly enjoyed the good cheer with which her table was
always spread.

John's desire to see the fun was more than satisfied,
as was also Hannah's, and after the receipt of Maude's
letter, the latter determined to write herself, “and let Miss
De Vere know just how things was managed.” In order
to do this, it was necessary to employ an amanuensis, and
she enlisted the services of the gardener, who wrote her
exact language, a mixture of negro, Southern, and Yankee.
A portion of this letter we give to the reader.

After expressing her pleasure that Maude could see,
and saying that she believed the new Miss to be a good
woman, but a mighty queer one, she continued:—

This letter, which conveyed to Maude a tolerably correct
idea of matters at home, will also show to the reader
the state of feeling existing between J. C. and Nellie.
They were not suited to each other, and though married
but seven months, there had been many a quarrel besides
the one which Hannah overheard. Nellie demanded of
her husband more love than he had to bestow, and the
consequence was, a feeling of bitter jealousy on her part
and an increasing coldness on his. They were an ill-assorted
couple, utterly incapable of taking care of themselves,
and when they heard from Mrs. Kelsey that she
really contemplated a second marriage, they looked forward
to the future with a kind of hopeless apathy, wholly

at variance with the feelings of the beautiful, dark-eyed
Maude, and the noble James De Vere.

Their love for each other had increased each day, and
their happiness seemed almost greater than they could
bear on that memorable morn when the husband bent
fondly over his young girl-wife, who laid a hand on each
side of his face, and while the great tears rolled down her
cheeks, whispered joyfully, “I can see you, darling; I can
see!”