IX Cynthia
As soon as Christopher had passed out of sight, Cynthia came from the kitchen with an armful of wet linen and began spreading it upon some scrubby lilac bushes in a corner of the yard. After fifteen years it still made her uncomfortable to have Christopher around when she did the family washing, and when it was possible she waited to dry the clothes until he had gone back to the field. In her scant calico dress, with the furrows of age already settling about her mouth, and her pale brown hair strained in thin peaks back from her forehead, she might have stood as the world-type of toil-worn womanhood, for she was of the stuff of martyrs, and the dignity of their high resolve was her one outward grace. Life had been revealed to her as something to be endured rather than enjoyed, and the softer adornments of her sex had not withstood the daily splashes of harsh soapsuds—they had faded like colours too delicate to stand the strain of ordinary use.
As she lifted one of her mother’s full white petticoats and turned to wring it dry with her red and blistered hands, a look that was perilously near disgust was on her face—for though she had done her duty heroically and meant to do it until the end, there were brief moments when it sickened her to desperation. She was the kind of woman whose hands perform the more thoroughly because the heart revolts against the task.
Lila, in her faded muslin which had taken the colours of November leaves, came to the kitchen doorway and stood watching her with a cheerful face.
“Has Jim Weatherby gone, Cynthia?”
Cynthia nodded grimly, turning her squinting gaze upon her. “Do you think I’d let him see me hanging out the clothes?” she snapped. Supreme as her unselfishness was, there were times when she appeared to begrudge the least of her services; and after the manner of all affection that comes as a bounty, the unwilling spirit was more impressive than the ready hand.
“I do wish you would make Docia help you,” said Lila, in a voice that sounded as if she were speaking in her own defense.
Cynthia wrung out a blue jean shirt of Christopher’s, spread it on an old lilac-bush, and pushed a stray lock of hair back with her wrist.
“There’s no use talking like that when you know Docia has heart disease and can’t scrub the clothes clean,” she responded. “If she’d drop down dead I’d like to know what we’d do with mother.”
“Well, I’d help you if you’d only let me,” protested Lila, on the point of tears. “I’ve darned your lavender silk the best I could, and I’d just as soon iron as not.”
“And get your hands like mine in a week. No, I reckon it’s as well for one of us to keep decent. My hands are so knotted I had to tell mother it was gout in the joints, and she said I must have been drinking too much port.” She laughed, but her eyes filled with tears, and she wiped them with hard rubs on a twisted garment, which she afterward shook in the air to dry.
“Well, you’re a saint, Cynthia, and I wish you weren’t,” declared Lila almost impatiently. “It makes me feel uncomfortable, as if it were somehow my fault that you had to be so good.”
“Being a saint is a good deal like being a woman, I reckon,” returned Cynthia dryly. “There’s a heap in having been born to it. Aunt Polly, have you put the irons on the fire? The first batch of clothes is almost dry.”
Aunt Polly, an aged crone, already stumbling into her dotage, hobbled from the kitchen and gathered up an armful of resinous pine from a pile beside the steps. “Dey’s ‘mos’ es hot es de debbil’s wood en iron shovel,” she replied, with one foot on the step; adding in a piercing whisper: “I know dat ar shovel, honey, ’caze de debbil he done come fur me in de daid er de night, lookin’ moughty peart, too; but I tole ’im he des better bide aw’ile ’caze I ’uz leanin’ sorter favo’bly to’ad de Lawd.”
“Aunt Polly, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Take those irons off and let them cool.”
“Dat’s so, Miss Cynthy, en I’se right down ‘shamed er myse’f, sho’ ’nough, but de shame er hit cyarn tu’n de heart er ’ooman.
De debbil he sutnev did look young en peart, dat he did—en de Lawd He knows, Miss Cynthy, I allers did like ’em young! I ‘uz done had nine un um in all, countin’ de un—en he wuz Cephus dat run off ‘fo’ de mah’age wid my bes’ fedder baid made outer de gray goose fedders ole miss done throwed away ‘caze dey warn’ w’ite. Yes, Lawd, dar’s done been nine un um, black en yaller, en dar ain’ nuver been en ole ’un in de hull lot. Whew! I ain’ nuver stood de taste er nuttin’ ole lessen he be a ’possum, en w’en hit comes ter en ole man, I d’clar hit des tuns my stomick clean inside out.”
“But, Aunt Polly, you’re old yourself-it’s disgraceful.”
Aunt Polly chuckled with flattered vanity.
“I know I is, honey—I know I is, but I’se gwine ter hev a young husban’ at de een ef hit tecks de ve’y las’ cent I’se got. De las’ un he come monst’ous high, en mo’n dat, he wuz sech en outlandish nigger dat he’d a-come high ef I’d got ’im as a Christmas gif’. I had ter gin ’im dat burey wid de bevel glass I bought wid all my savin’s, en des es soon es I steps outside de do’ he up en toted hit all de way ter de cabin er dat lowlifeted, savigorous, yaller hussy Delphy. Men sutney are tuh’ble slippery folks, Miss Cynthy, en y’all des better look out how you monkey wid ’em, ‘caze I’se done hed nine, en I knows ’em thoo en thoo. De mo’ you git, de likelier ’tis you gwine git one dat’s worth gittin’, dat’s vat I ’low.”
Cynthia gathered up the scattered garments, which had been left carelessly from the day before, and carried them into the kitchen, where a pine ironing board was supported by two empty barrels. Lila was busily preparing a bowl of gruel for one of the sick old Negroes who still lived upon the meager charity of the Blakes.
“Mother wants you, Cynthia,” she said. “I won’t do at all, for she can’t be persuaded that I’m really grown up, you know. Here, give me some of those clothes. It won’t hurt my hands a bit.”
Cynthia piled the clothes upon the board, and moistening her finger, applied it to the bottom of the iron. Then she handed it to Lila with a funny little air of anxiety. “This is just right,” she said; “be careful not to get your fingers burned, and remember to sprinkle the clothes well. Do you know what mother wants?”
“I think it’s about taking something to Aunt Dinah. Docia told her she was sick.”
“Then I wish Docia would learn to hold her tongue,” commented Cynthia, as she left the kitchen.
She found Mrs. Blake looking slightly irritated as she wound a ball of white yarn from a skein that Docia was holding between her outstretched hands.
“I hear Dinah is laid up with a stitch in her chest, Cynthia,” she said. “You must look in the medicine closet and give her ten grains of quinine and a drink of whisky. Tell her to keep well covered up, and see that Polly makes her hot flaxseed tea every two hours.”
“Lila is fixing her some gruel now, mother.”
“I said flaxseed tea, my dear. I am almost seventy years old, and I have treated three hundred servants and seen sixty laid in their graves, but if you think you are a better doctor than I am, of course there’s nothing to be said. Docia, hold the yarn a little tighter.”
“We’ll make the flaxseed tea at once, and I’ll carry it right over—a breath of air will do me good.”
Mrs. Blake sighed. “You mustn’t stay too closely with me,” she said; “you will grow old before your time, I fear. As it is you have given up your young life to my poor old one.”
“I had nothing to give up, mother,” replied Cynthia quietly, and in the few words her heart’s tragedy was written—since of all lives, the saddest is the one that can find nothing worthy of renouncement. There were hours when she felt that any bitter personal past—that the recollection of a single despairing kiss or a blighted love would have filled her days with happiness. What she craved was the conscious dignity of a broken heart—some lofty memory that she might rest upon in her hours of weakness.
“Well, you might have had, my child,” returned her mother.
Cynthia’s only answer was to smooth gently the pillows in the old lady’s chair. “If you could learn to lean back, dearest, it would rest you so,” she said.
“I have never slouched in my life,” replied Mrs. Blake decisively, “and I do not care to fall into the habit in my seventieth year. When my last hour comes, I hope at least to meet my God in the attitude becoming a lady, and in my day it would have been considered the height of impropriety to loll in a chair or even to rock in the presence of gentlemen. Your Greataunt Susannah, one of the most modest women of her time, has often told me that once, having unfortunately crossed her knees in the parlour after supper, she suffered untold tortures from “budges” for three mortal hours rather than be seen to do anything so indelicate as to uncross them. Well, well, ladies were ladies in those days, and now Lila tells me it is quite customary for them to sit like men. My blindness has spared me many painful sights, I haven’t a doubt.”
“Things have changed, dear. I wish they hadn’t. I liked the old days, too.”
“I’m glad at least to hear you say so. Your Aunt Susannah—and she was the one who danced a minuet with General Lafayette, you know—used to say that patience and humility became a gentlewoman better than satin and fine lace. She was a lady of fashion and a great beauty, so I suppose her opinion counts for something— especially as she was noted for being the proudest woman of her day, and it was said that she never danced with a gentleman who hadn’t fought a duel on her account. When she went to a ball it took six small darkies to carry her train, and her escort was always obliged to ride on top of the coach to keep from rumpling the flounces of her petticoat. They always said that I had inherited something of her face and step.”
“I’m sure she was never so beautiful as you, mother.”
“Ah, well, every one to his taste, my child; and I have heard that she wore a larger shoe. However, this is foolish chatter, and a waste of time. Go and carry Dinah the medicine, and let me see Christopher as soon as he comes in. By the way, Cynthia, have you noticed whether he seeks the society of ladies? Do you think it likely that his affections are engaged?”
“No, no, not at all. He doesn’t care for girls; I’m sure of it.”
“That seems very strange. Why, at his age, his father had been the object of a dozen love affairs, and been jilted twice, report went, though I had my suspicion from the first that it was the other way. Certainly Miss Peggie Stuart (and he had once been engaged to her) went into a decline immediately after our marriage—but in affairs of the heart, as I have mentioned often before, the only reliable witnesses are those who never tell what they know. Now, as for Christopher, are you quite sure he is as handsome as you say?” “Quite, quite, he’s splendid—like the picture of the young David in the Bible.” “Then there’s something wrong. Does he cough?” “His health seems perfect.” “Which proves conclusively that he cherishes a secret feeling. For a man to go twenty-six years without falling in love means that he’s either a saint or an imbecile, my dear; and for my part, I declare I don’t know which character sits worse upon a gentleman. Can it be one of the Morrisons, do you think? The youngest girl used to be considered something of a beauty by the family; though she was always too namby-pamby for my taste.”
“She’s fifty by now, if she’s a day, mother, and the only thing I ever saw Christopher do for her was to drive a strange bull out of her road.” “Well, that sounds romantic; but I fear, as you say, she’s really too old for him. How time does fly.” Cynthia stooped and carefully arranged the old lady’s feet upon the ottoman. “There, now—I’ll carry the medicine to Aunt Dinah,” she said, “and be back in plenty of time to dress for supper.” She found the quinine in an old medicine chest in the adjoining room, and went with it to one of the crumbling cabins which had formed part of the “quarters” in the prosperous days of slavery. Aunt Dinah insisted upon detaining her for a chat, and it was half an hour afterward that she came out again and walked slowly back along the little falling path. The mild June breeze freshened her hot cheeks, and as she passed thoughtfully between the coarse sprays of yarrow blooming along the ragged edges of the fields she felt her spirit freed from the day’s burden of unrest. What she wanted just then was to lie for an hour close upon the ground, to renew the vital forces within her by contact with the invigorating earth—to feel Nature at friendly touch with her lips and hands. She would have liked to run like a wild thing through the golden sunshine lying upon the yarrow, following the shy cries of the partridges that scattered at her approach—but there was work for her inside the house, so she went back patiently to take it up. As she entered the little yard, she saw Tucker basking in the sunshine on an old bench beside one of the damask rose-bushes, and she crossed over and stood for a moment in the tall grass before him. “You look so happy, Uncle Tucker. How do you manage it?” “By keeping so, I reckon, my dear. I tell you, this sun feels precious good on the back.” She dropped limply on the bench beside him. “Yes, it is pleasant, but I hadn’t thought of it.” “Well, you’d think of it often enough if you were in my place,” pursued Tucker, always garrulous, and grateful for a listener. “I didn’t notice things much myself when I was young. The only sights that seemed to count, somehow, were those I saw inside my head, and if you’ll believe me, I used to be moody and out of sorts half the time, just like Christopher. Times have changed now, you’ll say, and it’s true. Why, I’ve got nothing to do these days but to take a look at things, and I tell you I see a lot now where all was a blank before. You just glance over that old field and tell me what you find,” Cynthia followed the sweep of his left arm. “There’s first the road, and then a piece of fallow land that ought to be ploughed,” she said. “Bless my soul, is that all you see? Why, there is every shade of green on earth in that old field, and almost every one of blue, except azure, which you’ll find up in the sky. That little bit of white cloud, no bigger than my hand, is shaped exactly like an eagle’s wing. I’ve watched it for an hour, and I never saw one like it. As for that old pine on top the little knoll, if you look at it long enough you’ll see that it’s a great big green cross raised against the sky.” “So it is,” said Cynthia, in surprise; “so it is.”
“Then to come nearer, look at that spray of turtlehead growing by that gray stone—the shadow it throws is as fine as thread lace, and it waves in the breeze just like the flower.”
“Oh, it is beautiful, and I never should have seen it.”
“And best of all,” resumed Tucker, as if avoiding an interruption, “is that I’ve watched a nestful of young wrens take flight from under the eaves. There’s not a play of Shakespeare’s greater than that, I tell you.” “And it makes you happy—just this?” asked Cynthia wistfully, as the pathos of his maimed figure drove to her heart. “Well, I reckon happiness is not so much in what comes as in the way you take it,” he returned, smiling. “There was a time, you must remember, when I was the straightest shot of my day, and something of a lady-killer as well, if I do say it who shouldn’t. I’ve done my part in a war and I’m not ashamed of it. I’ve taken the enemy’s cannon under a fire hot enough to roast an ox, and I’ve sent more men to eternity than I like to think of; but I tell you honestly there’s no battle-field under heaven worth an hour of this old bench. If I had my choice to-day, I’d rather see the flitting of those wrens than kill the biggest Yankee that ever lived. The time was when I didn’t think so, but I know now that there’s as much life out there in that old field as in the tightest-packed city street I ever saw—purer life, praise God, and sweeter to the taste. Why, look at this poplar leaf that blew across the road; I’ve studied the pattern of it for half an hour, and I’ve found out that such a wonder is worth going ten miles to see.” “Oh, I can’t understand you,” sighed Cynthia hopelessly. “I wish I could, but I can’t—I was born different—so different.” “Bless your heart, honey, I was born different myself, and if I’d kept my leg and my arm I dare say I’d be strutting round on one and shaking the other in the face of God Almighty just as I used to do. A two-legged man is so busy getting about the world that he never has time to sit down and take a look around him. I tell you I see more in one hour as I am now than I saw in all the rest of my life when I was sound and whole. Why, I could sit here all day long and stare up at that blue sky, and then go to bed feeling that my twelve hours were full and brimming over. If I’d never seen anything in my life but that sky above the old pine, I should say at the end ‘Thank God for that one good look.’” “I can’t understand—I can’t understand,” repeated Cynthia, in a broken voice, though her face shed a clear, white beam. “I only know that we are all in awful straights, and that to-morrow is the day when I must get up at five o’clock and travel all the way to town to get my sewing.” He laid his large pink hand on hers, “Why not let Lila go for you?” “What! to wait like a servant for the bundle and walk the streets all day—I’d go twenty times first!” “My dear, you needn’t envy me,” he responded, patting her knotted hand. “I took less courage with me when I stormed my heights.”