University of Virginia Library

2. II.
FESSENDEN'S GETS A RIDE.

Sunday morning: cold and clear. The December sun
shines upon the glassy turf, and upon trees all clad in
armor of glittering ice. And the trees creak and rattle in
the north wind; and the icy splinters fall tinkling to the
ground.

The splendor of the morning gilds the Judge's estate.
Everything about the mansion smiles and sparkles. Were
last night's horrors a dream?

There was danger, we remember, that the foolish youth
might do a very inconsiderate and shocking thing, and
perhaps ruin the Judge. What if he had really deposited
his mortal remains at the gate of that worthy man, — to
be found there, ghastly and stiff, a revolting spectacle, this
bright morning? What a commentary on Gingerford philanthropy!
For of course some one would at once have
stepped forward to testify to having seen him driven from
the door, which he came back to lay his bones near. And
Stephen would have been on hand to remember directing
such a person, inquiring his way a second time to the
Judge's house. And here he is dead, — to the secret
delight of the Judge's enemies, and to the indignation of
all Timberville. At anybody else's door it would n't have
seemed so bad. But at Gingerford's! a philanthropist by
profession! author of that beautiful speech you cried over!

You will never forgive him those tears. The greatest
crime a man can be guilty of in the eyes of his constituents
is to have been over-praised by them. Woe to him, when
they find out their error! and woe now to the Judge!
The fact that a dozen other influential citizens had also
refused shelter to the vagabond will not help the matter.
Those very men will probably be the first to cry, “Hypocrite!
inhuman! a judgment upon him!” — for it is
always the person of doubtful virtue who is most eager to
assume the appearance of severe integrity; and we often
flatter ourselves that our private faults are atoned for,
when we have loudly denounced the same in others.

Fortunately, the flower of the Judge's reputation is
saved from so terrible a blight. There is no corpse at his
gate; and our speculations are idle.

This is what had occurred.

Not long after the lad had lain down, a dream-like spell
came over him. His pain was gone. He forgot that he
was cold. He was not hungry any more. A sweet sense
of rest was diffused through his tired limbs. And smiling
and soothed he lay, while the storm beat upon him. Was
this death? For we know that in this merciful shape
death sometimes comes to the sufferer.

Fessenden's afterwards said that he had “one of his
fits.” He was subject to such. When men reviled and
denied him, then came the angels, — or he imagined they
came. They walked by his side, and talked with him,
and often, all a summer's afternoon, he could be heard
conversing in the fields, as with familiar friends, when
only himself was visible, and his voice alone was heard in
the silence. This was, in fact, one of those idiosyncrasies
which had earned him his shameful name.

In the trance of that night, lying cold upon the ground,
he beheld his ghostly visitors. They came and stood

around him, a shining company, and looked upon him with
countenances of fair women and good men. Their apparel
was not unlike that of mortals. And he heard them
questioning among themselves how they should help him.
And one of them, as it seemed, brought human assistance;
though the boy, who could see plenty of ghosts, could not,
for some reason, see the only actually visible and substantial
person then on the spot besides himself. He felt,
however, sensibly enough, the concussion of a stout pair
of mortal legs that presently went stumbling over him in
the dark. The shock roused him. The whole shadowy
company vanished; and in their place he saw, by the
glimmer from the Judge's windows, a dark sprawling figure
getting up out of the mud and water.

“Don't be scaret, it 's me,” said Fessenden's; for he
guessed the fellow was frightened.

“Excuse me, sir! I really did n't know it was you,
sir!” said the man, with agitated politeness. “And who
might you be, sir? if I may be so bold as to inquire.”
And regaining his balance, his umbrella, and his self-possession,
he drew near and squatted cautiously before the
prostrate beggar, who, had his eyesight been half as keen
for the living as it was for the dead, would have discovered
that the face bending over him was black.

“Never mind me,” said Fessenden's. “Did it hurt
ye?”

“Well, sir, — no, sir, — only my knee went pretty seriously
into something wet. And I believe I 've turned my
umbrella wrong side out. I say, sir, what was you doing,
lying here, sir? You don't think of remaining here all
night, I trust, sir?”

“I 've nowhere else to go,” said the boy, trying to rise.

The black man helped him up.

“But this never 'll do, you know! such an inclement

night as this is! — you 'd die before morning, sure! Just
wait till I can get my umbrella into shape, — my gracious!
how the wind pulls it! Now, then, suppose you
come along with me.”

“Please, sir, I can't walk”; for the lad's limbs had
stiffened, in spite of his angels.

“Is that so, sir? Let me see; about how much do you
weigh, sir? Not much above a hundred, do you? It
is n't impossible but I may take you on my back. Suppose
you try it.”

“O, I can't!” groaned the boy.

“Excuse me for contradicting you, but I think you can,
sir. I should n't like to do it myself, in the daytime; but
in the night so, who cares? Nobody 'll laugh at us, even
if we don't succeed. Really, I wish you was n't quite so
wet, sir; for these here is my Sunday clothes. But
never mind a little water; we 'll find a fire to get dry
again. There you are, my friend! A little higher. Put
your hands over across my breast. Could n't manage to
hold the umbrella over us, could you? So fashion.
Now steady, while I rise with you.”

And the stalwart young negro, hooking his arms well
under the legs of his rider, got up stoopingly, gave a toss
and a jolt to get him into the right position, and walked
off with him. Away they go, tramp, tramp, in the storm
and darkness. Thank Heaven, the Judge's fame is safe!
If the pauper dies, it will not be at his door. Little he
knows, there in his elegant study, what an inestimable
service this black Samaritan is rendering him. And it
was just; for, after all the Judge had done for the negro
(who, I suppose, was equally unconscious of any substantial
benefit received), it was time that the negro should
do something for him in return.

Tramp! tramp! a famous beggar's ride! It was a

picturesque scene, with food for laughter and tears in it,
had we only been there with a lantern. Fessenden's fantastic
astride of the African, staring forward into the
darkness from under his ragged hat-brim, endeavoring to
hold the wreck of an umbrella over them, — the wind
flapping and whirling it. Tramp! tramp! past all those
noble mansions, to the negro hut beyond the village.
And, O, to think of it! the rich citizens, the enlightened
and white-skinned Levites, having left him out, one of
their own race, to perish in the storm, this despised black
man is found, alone of all the world, to show mercy unto
him!

“How do you get on, sir?” says the stout young
Ethiop. “Would you ride easier, if I should trot? or
would you prefer a canter? Tell 'em to bring on their
two-forty nags now, if they want a race.”

Talking in this strain to keep up his rider's spirits, he
brought him, not without sweat and toil, to the hut. A
kick on the door with the beggar's foot, which he used for
the purpose, caused it to be opened by a woolly-headed
urchin; and in he staggered.

Little woolly-head clapped his hands and screamed.

“O crackie, pappy! here comes Bill with the Devil on
his back!”

Sensation in the hut. There was an old negro woman
in the corner, at one side of the stove, knitting; and a
very old negro man in the opposite corner, napping; and
a middle-aged man with spectacles on his ebony nose,
reading slowly aloud from an ancient greasy-covered book
opened before him on the old pine table; and a middle-aged
woman patching a jacket; and a girl washing dishes
which another girl was wiping; representatives of four
generations: and they all quitted their occupations at
once, to see what sort of a devil Bill had brought home.

“Why, William! who have you got there, William?”
said he of the spectacles, with mild wonder, removing
those clerkly aids of vision and laying them across the
book.

“A chair!” panted Bill. “Now ease him down, if you
please, — careful, — and I 'll — recite the circumstances,”
— puffing, but polite to the last.