University of Virginia Library

12. XII.
A STRANGER VISITS THE GRAVE.

Of course there was an inquest, and of course the whole
thing was duly reported in the newspapers; in consequence
of which a stranger from a neighboring county
drove into the village one afternoon, and, after making
some inquiries of persons he met, reined up at the negro's
hut. As he declined to alight (for good reasons, apparently,
being a man of such marvellous ponderosity that,
once out of the buggy, which his breadth of beam completely
filled, it were a wonder how he could ever get back
into it again), Mr. Williams, who had just finished his
dinner, went out to speak with him.

He had come to get some particulars concerning the
inquest and the subject of it.

“About the boy,” said Mr. Williams; “I suppose I can
tell you as much as anybody; but about the inquest
you 'd better see the coroner or Judge Gingerford.”

“The inquest did n't seem to be very satisfactory,” remarked
the stranger, with slow, measured words from
broad, unctuous lips.

“They brought in that he come to his death at the
hands of some person or persons unknown. Some have
been suspected, but the only one we felt pretty sure of
has run off, — that was the man Dorson. 'T was better
so, I suppose.”

“I think justice on the offenders would have been more
in the interest of religion and good morals,” said the
stranger, with grave emphasis. “And have you no personal
resentment?”

“What would be the good of that?” replied Williams.
“The feeling in town is so strong ag'inst 'em, I don't believe
they 'll molest us in futur'. And for what they 've
done, I believe they 'll find punishment enough in their
own consciences. So we all feel except my son that had
his leg hurt; he is pretty hot ag'inst 'em yet, but he 'll
feel better as his leg gits well.”

“Did the boy have suitable burial?”

“Yes, sir, I should say so; I 'll go and show you where,
if you like.”

“It might be a satisfaction to see his grave,” remarked
the stranger; and, with the negro walking beside the
buggy, he drove over to the new cemetery.

“This is my lot, sir,” said Williams. “It was given
me by the Judge when my old gran'ther died. This
new grave is the one, — next to Mr. Frisbie's lot. We
had a regular sermon by a minister, and a fine one it was,
though he did n't say no such beautiful words as the
Judge said over my old gran'ther. But that could n't
have been expected; there a'n't another such a man in
the world as Judge Gingerford! He has had his enemies,
but I believe they 're turning about to be his friends.

Mr. Frisbie was very much displeased because he gave
us this lot, but he is getting over it. He has had another
child very sick, — he buried one here the very day my
old gran'ther was laid in the ground; and the Judge has
been to speak friendly words to him; and my old mother
is over there now, nussing the girl, — they found it hard
to git a good nuss; and, sir, even Mr. Frisbie appears
very much different towards us now.”

“I learn that you behaved in a very Christian manner
towards this boy. As I have some interest in him, I shall
wish to reward you for your trouble.” And the fat man
took out a fat pocket-book.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Williams, “but I could n't tech
no pay for what we done for him, no way in the world.
He was a blessing to us from the time he come into our
house, and he has left a blessing with us. The angels
sent him to us, — he always said they did, and I believe
him.”

“He had curious notions about the angels,” said the
stranger, with a peculiar smile. “His friends tried to
teach him differently, but he was singularly obstinate
about certain things; I even — perhaps they were too
harsh with him, in the way of their duty. Justice is justice,
and I must insist upon your taking some compensation;
this is very slight.”

He held two or three bills in his hand, and Williams
could see that one of them bore the figures “100,” — more
money than he had ever possessed. Still it would have
seemed to him like the price of blood, had he taken it;
and reluctantly at last the man put the notes back into
his pocket.

“May I ask, are you a relative of his?” said Williams,
as they parted at the cemetery gate.

“O no; he has wealthy relatives, though they do not

care to be publicly known as such; his mental infirmity
— you understand.”

“Then may I ask if you —”

“I was only employed to take care of him. My name,”
said the stranger, touching up his horse, “is — Fessenden.”

Not long after, Mr. Williams had the remains of his
child taken from the old burying-ground, and laid beside
the patriarch. Simple tombstones marked the spot, and
commemorated the old man's extreme age and early bondage.

Another tablet, of pure white marble, was erected over
the grave of the simple boy, bearing the device of a dove,
and this inscription, — chosen from the old grandmother's
words, —

Need we say that the hand of Judge Gingerford was in
all these things?

After the outrage upon the Williams family, in the full
flush of public indignation and sympathy, the sagacious
man had caused a subscription paper to circulate for their
benefit. That he should lead off the list with a liberal
figure was natural, it was characteristic of the superb
Gingerford; but that the very next name on the paper,
pledging an equal sum, should have been Frisbie's, was
astonishing to Timberville, — to everybody, in point of
fact, except the Judge, who had warily chosen his moment,
and who knew his man.

Such a beginning insured the success of the paper. And
yet that success did not account for the fact, that, after
funereal and lapidary expenses had been paid, Gingerford,
treasurer of the fund, had still five hundred dollars of it

left in his hands! As poor Mr. Williams declared with
tearful eyes that his folks had no use for so much money,
what did the Judge do with it but build them a new
house, — “really a residence, a mansion,” as Gentleman
Bill termed it, — upon a lot purchased for the purpose,
situated not quite in front of the Judge's, not exactly
under the Gingerford windows, as fastidious readers will
be pleased to know. How large a part of all that money
had passed through the portly pocket-book of the portly
stranger, and was in fact the origin of the fund which
had been devised to cover it, Williams, fortunately for his
peace of mind, never surmised.

Early in the spring — But no more! Have n't we
already prolonged our sketch to an intolerable length,
considering the subject of it? Not a lover in it! and,
of course, it is preposterous to think of making a readable
story without one. Why did n't we make young Gingerford
in love with — let 's see — Miss Frisbie? and Miss
Frisbie's brother (it would have required but a stroke of
the pen to give her one) in love with — Creshy Williams?
What melodramatic difficulties might have been built upon
this foundation! And as for Fessenden's, he should have
turned out to be the son of either Gingerford or Frisbie!
But it is too late now. We acknowledge our fatal mistake.
Who cares for the fortunes of a miserable negro family?
Who cares for a — Fessenden's?