CHAPTER IX.—JOE HAS AN’ IDEA.
It was two weeks now since that dreadful afternoon up at Ellismere, and it has been a quiet two weeks for all of our little party. No one has had the heart for very much fun, for Grandma Ellis has been very ill up at Ellismere, and dear old Joe is lying helpless in bed in his own little cabin. After the storm had spent its force they had carried Joe up to the house, and there he had lain unmindful of everything about him for three whole days together. Then, when at last consciousness came back, power to move either right arm or leg did not come with it, and then they learned that poor old Joe was paralysed. As soon as possible after that they moved Joe up to Arlington, for he longed for his own bed and his own familiar cabin. And who do you suppose went up to care for Joe, but Mammy! “If you can spare me. Miss Lindy,” Mammy had said to Grandma Ellis, “I would like to look out for Joe de res’ of his days. I ain’t allers been ober kin’ to dat ole gem’an, an’ I ain’t had no idea what splendid stuff he had in him,” and it seemed a very little thing to Grandma Ellis to spare Mammy for the sake of the one who had saved Brevet’s life. That Joe had saved it there was but little question, for the storm had seemed to be at its very height when it reached the island, levelling and demolishing everything upon it. The tent had been carried off bodily, no one knew where, and the little pine trees uprooted lay wedged in the rocks as though pounded in with an anvil, so that it seemed impossible that Brevet could have escaped being hurled into the river, or dashed against the rocks with the same terrible force as the pine trees.
Harry had been unable to bring any one from the stables, for both the men, as it happened, were three miles away at the blacksmith’s, and but for Joe’s instant action, any help would have come too late.
I doubt if Teddy will ever quite forgive Grandma Ellis, or his sister Mary, for forbidding him to join the party in search of Brevet, or ever cease to be thankful that at last, rushing out of the house in spite of all their protests, he was able to render such timely aid.
As for Joe, he accepted his utter helplessness with a beautiful resignation, but there was something on Joe’s mind, and one day he said to Mammy: "Would you min’, Mammy, just sendin’ fo’ Miss Courage to come heah for awhile dis ebenin’. I’se somethin’ important ter say ter lier, ‘Tain’t dat I couldn’t trus’ you wid it, Mammy, only you knows dey am times when a ‘spectable cullud pusson seem ter need der advice of a pusson what is born ter a different colour and station.’
“Miss Courage shall be sent for dis bery ebenin’, Joe,” for Mammy had made up her mind that Joe was to be humoured in every particular. And so Courage came, and with Brevet, who had happened to be spending the day at Homespun, for her companion. They stopped to leave the buckboard at the stable, where a young mulatto boy was now doing Joe’s work, and then Brevet asked permission to run on ahead. He had something on his mind, as well as Joe, and he was longing to ask him a question that had just occurred to him the day before, and which had made his little heart very heavy.
“Joe,” he said in an awed whisper, stepping into the cabin and looking quickly about to see if Mammy happened to be out of hearing, “are you asleep, Joe?”
“No, bless your little heart,” and Joe’s old face lighted up with the joy of Brevet’s coming, “I was des habin a bit o’ a day-dream.” "Joe,” whispered Brevet, tip-toeing close to his side, “I want you to tell me something. You’re paralysed, you know, Joe.”
“Yes, Honey, I knows.”
“Well, it wasn’t because you went in the river for me, was it, Joe? It just happened to come then, didn’t it, Joe?” in anxious inquiry, and as though to find out that he was responsible for Joe’s illness would be more than he could bear.
“Des happen? o’ course, chile, des happen. Why, des look at me, Honey! I’se pow’ful ole; reckon nobody knows how ole I be,” (which was the truth, for Joe, if he knew himself, had never told any one), “whereas mos’ white-haired cullud pussons is par’Iysed long afore my time o’ life, par’Iysed all over too, not des a sort o’ half par’Iysed like me. No, neber you b’lieve it anythin’ but des happened, no matter what folks say, case you ‘member Joe tol’ you so, an’ I ought ter know, I reckon, better’n anybody.”
It was as though a great shadow had been lifted from Brevet. Courage, wondering how to account for the little fellow’s apparent spiritlessness all day, wondered now, as she entered, at the little illumined face.
“See here, Brevet,” said Joe, smiling a welcome to Courage, “will you look ober de place while I’se talkin’ ter Miss Courage. Go up to de house and down ‘roun’ General Sheridan’s grave, an’ my Oder special fav’rites, an’ see if eberythin’ is bein’ kept up ter de handle, case no one knows as well as you, Brevet, how Joe allers like ter hab ‘em kep’.”
Brevet joyously obeyed, proud to be sent on such an important errand; and after Courage and Joe had exchanged a few words of greeting, Joe at once settled to the particular business in hand.
“Miss Courage,” he said, very solemnly, “I don’ b’lieve dey’s such anoder mean contemptible good for nothin’ darkey in all dis county as I is. Look at dis cabin! des as orderly as can be, an’ den ‘member how I’se allers treated Mammy. She ain’t nowhere roun’, is she?” raising himself on one arm and looking cautiously about the room.
“No; Mammy is way up the hill yonder, knitting under the chestnut tree. I met her as I came, and she told me that you had something important to say to me, and that she wouldn’t come back until I called her.”
“Beats me,” answered Joe, “ter see Mammy so considerate an’ behavin’ hersel’ in dis fashion. Why, dere ain’t nothin’ Mammy can think of to make me mo’ comfortable dat she doesn’t up an’ do in a jiffy. Why, when yo’ Sylvy comes down ebry day or so, ter see if she can len’ a hand as you are so good as ter sen’ her, dey ain’t, as a rule, nuffin lef for her ter do, ‘ceptin’ Mammy set her ter make some little relish for me to pay her fo’ de trouble of cornin’. Now can you ‘magine, Miss Courage, how all dis mak’ me feel, case I’se allers been down on Mammy? You ‘member I neber so much as invite her ter my Fo’th July dinner. I allers ‘spect Grandma Ellis staid away so as to let Mammy think she was nowise invited either.”
“But you mustn’t blame yourself too much, Joe,” Courage interrupted, “for if I’m not mistaken, Mammy has been always rather down upon you. No wonder that she wants to make amends. You’re a perfect hero in all our eyes now, Joe. Just think of the terrible risk you ran and of all it has cost you, Joe—”
“‘Tain’t cost me nuffin, Miss Courage,” Joe said, almost angrily. “Oh, I des hope for Brevet’s sake dey won’t be sayin’ any such foolish t’ing as dat. I happen ter know dat Brevet would neber get over it if he thought he was ‘sponsible for me lyin’ here in bed. No, Miss Courage, dat paralysis des happened ter come. I want it ter be so understood. I’d had the queerest numb sort o’ feelin’s creepin’ over me a whole week ‘fo’ I took dat plunge in de riber—but—-but, what I sent for you for am dis: I’se had a heap o’ time, lyin’ heah, an’ I’se been usin’ my eyes, an’ sure huff I hab an idea. You know your Sylvy? Well, she tol’ me dat day when ole Colonel Anderson an’ all of you were at Arlington, an’ we was clearin’ up de dinner dishes, dat she been ris up in an institution in Brooklyn, an’ so far as she knew she didn’t hab a relashun in de worl’. Now, do you happen ter know, Miss Courage, who took Sylvy to dat ‘sylum?”
“No, Joe; and I’m quite sure Sylvia once told me that nobody knew; but if you wish, I can write and make some inquiry. But why do you want to know, Joe?”
“Why, case I b’lieve it isn’t de mos’ impossible t’ing in de worl’ dat Mammy and Sylvy is related,” and Joe lowered his voice to an almost imperceptible whisper.
“But whatever do you found that upon?” Courage asked, eagerly.
“Observation, Miss Courage, an’ what you might call human probability,” (Joe was perfectly delighted to find two such fine long words at his command) “an’ as I tol’ you, I’se been usin’ my eyes lyin’ heah, an’ dey has little ways an’ gestures, Mammy and Sylvy, common to bof of ‘em. Den you know Mammy had a daughter sol’ way from her des befo’ de wah, an’ as Sylvy ain’t no idea what name she was born to, ‘tain’t impossible is it, dat she should be Mammy’s gran’chile?”
“No, it isn’t impossible, Joe, but I must honestly say I do not think it probable. Just think how very little you really have to build upon.”
“Mighty little, I grant you, Miss Courage, ‘cepting dose little ways an’ gestures; but you’ll write, won’t you, case there ain’t the least harm in writing is there?”
“Yes, indeed I will, Joe, this very night, but you mustn’t hang too many hopes upon it, so as not to be too much disappointed.”
“Dey’s hung dere already. Miss Courage,” said incorrigible Joe, “an’ I’se not goin’ter take ‘em down till I has ter.”
“All right,” laughed Courage. “May I call Mammy back now? for I should like to see her for awhile before I go home.”
“Yes, you call her, an’ des you notice, now your ‘tention’s called ter it, if dere isn’t some ways dat ‘mind you of Sylvy.”
And Courage did notice, and was really so surprised at some points of resemblance, that she wrote her letter that night with a deeper conviction that they might be on the verge of a discovery than she had that morning thought possible.
CHAPTER X.—BREVET SCORES A POINT.
“Is anybody going to die in this chapter?” asked a little girl who is very dear to me, as we were reading aloud last evening. The chapter had certainly a rather ominous title, and if any one was going to die she preferred to go to bed. Now if we had happened to have been reading this story together, I am pretty sure I should have met the same question; for, what with Joe ill in bed, and Grandma Ellis ill at Ellismere, and both of them pretty old people, it does look, I admit, as though there might be something sad to write about it. But, happily, for that happy summer there was to be no sorrowful ending. Grandma Ellis was soon quite herself again, and Joe improved so much that it seemed as though he would probably be able to move about his cabin again some day. And so everything would have been bright and hopeful enough save for this—the time had come for Courage and the Bennetts and Mary Duff and Sylvia to go home, and all hearts as a result were as heavy as lead. The Bennetts were eager to see their father and mother and the baby, but they did not want to go back to the great, crowded city. And Courage—well, she wondered what she possibly could find to do at home that would so absorb her whole thought and time as this Little Homespun household, and keep her half as happy and contented. She feared that when she went back, the old loneliness would surely come surging down upon her, and that life without Miss Julia would seem again intolerable. She was thinking just such sad thoughts as these as she sat alone in the little living-room, stitching away at a dress of Mary Bennett’s that needed mending for the journey on the morrow. Every one but herself and Mary Duff had gone up to Arlington for a good-bye call upon Joe. Courage was not planning to go until late in the day, calculating that the afternoon mail would surely bring her some word from the asylum; and so, as she sat alone with her own sad thoughts, she was suddenly surprised by a little figure in the doorway and a larger figure looming above it.
“Where’s everybody?” asked Brevet. “May we come in?”
“Yes, indeed, come in!” Courage answered, cordially. “Indeed, I am glad to see you, for I’m as blue as can be.” "So are we,” said Brevet, sitting disconsolately down in a huge armchair that made him look more disconsolate than ever “Uncle Harry’s hardly spoken to me all the way.” Harry made no denial and dropped into the nearest chair.
“And you’ll be bluer still, Brevet, to find that no one’s at home,” Courage added. “They have all gone up to Arlington.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter,” Brevet replied, philosophically, “we shall see them all tomorrow when we come down to see you off; but what we all care the most about is your going, Miss Courage. Grandnana a cries every time she thinks of it, and Uncle Harry says it will be just like a funeral all the time for him until he is able to go back to the office, and I’m just as miserable as I can be.”
“Well, it’s very kind of you all,” sighed Courage. “It seems to me there never were two such dear places as Homespun and Ellis-mere, and you cannot imagine how I hate to leave them.”
“What will you all do anyway when you get back to New York?” Brevet asked, a little sullenly, as though he felt in his heart that really they were to blame for going.
“Well, we are not going because we want to, Brevet,” Courage answered almost sharply, for she was herself just down-spirited enough to be a trifle touchy and childish. “There is no reason why Mary Duff and Sylvia and I should stay since the Bennetts will not be here to be cared for.”
“But what is the reason for your going home, Miss Courage?” asked Brevet, determined to have the whole situation explained.
“Well, Mary Duff is needed at the hospital, where she has charge, you know, of a whole ward full of little babies; and, as for Sylvia and me, our home is there you know—we belong there—and I shall try very hard to find something to fill up all my time, for that is the only way for me to manage now that I no longer have Miss Julia.”
“But do people always belong to just one place?”
“No, not always,” Courage was forced to admit.
“Well, you and Brevet seem to be having things all your own way,” said Harry, really speaking for the first time since he had entered.
“Yes; I was thinking it would be more polite if you should join in the conversation,” Courage answered, colouring a little, for she had felt annoyed at Harry’s apparently moody silence.
“Well,” he added, slowly, “I do not know on the whole that there is anything for me to say.”
“Then why did you come?”
“Simply to see you once more.”
“And what was the use of that?” Courage asked, she hardly knew why.
“No use, simply to enjoy the pathetic sort of pleasure of all last times; but I do not myself understand why you could not have stayed on and made us a visit? You would have made my grandmother very happy.”
“Oh, Harry, come off!” said Brevet, who had unavoidably acquired a boy’s measure of slang, and who was old enough to appreciate when Harry was not his frank, honest self. “That’s all stuff about Grandnana—you want Miss Courage to stay for yourself just as much as Grandnana wants her for herself and I want her for myself.”
“‘Children and fools speak the truth,’” said Harry, looking straight at Courage.
“Yes, that’s the blessed beauty of them,” looking straight back at him.
“Other people don’t dare,” said Harry.
“Other people lack courage.”
“I quite agree with you. I know a fellow who feels that with Courage he could defy the whole world.”
“Brevet,” said Courage, folding away the mended dress, “there is a pile of pictures yonder that I have been collecting from the magazines and papers for your scrap-book. Bring them here and let us look them over.”
Brevet was not to be diverted. It was always one thing at a time with him. The pictures could wait—he couldn’t. He had one or two questions yet to ask, and he came and stood beside Courage as though to compel her undivided attention.
“But why couldn’t you visit us? Didn’t you want to?”
“Yes, I should have been glad to come, Brevet; I cannot explain to you why I couldn’t.”
“I suppose it was because there wasn’t anything particular for you to do; you always want to be doing something. Now, Miss Courage, I have heard Grandnana say that if Uncle Harry would bring a wife home to Ellismere some day she would give her all the housekeeping. Now, don’t you think you could come that way, because then you would have a great deal to do?”
“Can you not stop this child?” said Courage, turning with a look of indignant appeal to Harry.
“He is doing very well,” Harry answered, without looking up. Brevet, intent upon his own line of thought, paid not the least attention to either of the last remarks.
“Now, Miss Courage,” resting one arm on her chair and speaking thoughtfully and slowly, “couldn’t you—don’t you think you could—perhaps—be Uncle Harry’s wife and so belong up to our house and have lots of things to do?”
“Yes, couldn’t you—perhaps?” said Harry, very earnestly.
Courage gave one glance toward Harry, and then sat gazing straight at Brevet with a look on her face as though endeavouring to frame some sort of answer; while Brevet, with appeal in his eyes more eloquent than words, waited in solemn silence for her answer.
“But, Brevet,” she said, at last, “are you sure, perfectly sure that your Uncle Harry would not mind?”
“Perfectly sure!” but not so much as looking toward Harry, so completely did he regard the matter as resting wholly between Courage and himself.
“Well, then, Brevet, I believe I could.”
Then for the first time Brevet showed an inclination to include Harry in the conversation, but for that matter he had to, for Harry was close beside Courage now. “There,” he said, with a great sigh of relief, “what did I tell you? Perhaps she doesn’t care enough to do it for you, but she cares enough to do it for us all three together.”
“Run, Brevet!” said Courage. “See, there is Mary coming with the mail. Run, and bring it quickly.”
Brevet scampered off in high feather, and Courage instantly straightened herself up and looked accusingly at Harry.
“Do you mean to say that you actually talked all this over with Brevet?”
“No,” he answered, never looking so handsome or so happy in his life. “He talked it all over with me. He seemed to think it the one way out of the difficulty.”
“And you knew he was—he was going to say all this to me?”
“No, I never so much as dreamt it for a minute, I assure you, or that he was going to take matters into his own hands. On the contrary, I wanted to come alone this afternoon, but come he would. He had evidently thought out his own course of action, and I shall bless him for it all my life.”
CHAPTER XI.—A RED-LETTER AFTERNOON.
They were a happy trio that set out for Arlington a half hour later. Harry and Courage walked closely, side by side, for there was much to be said that could not by any chance have any interest for Brevet; besides, you could not have kept Brevet still enough for five seconds together to listen to anything. He was quite as wild with joy as any little terrier, liberated from his kennel for the first run over the hills in a fortnight. But the joy that made him run hither and thither, and come bounding back to press a flower into Courage’s hands, or simply to look up to her face, or brush affectionately against her in true terrier fashion, was something more than animal spirits. Courage was coming up to Ellismere to live! Courage was coming! No little May-time songster was ever more joyous over the coming of Spring, and Brevet would have trilled as glad a carol if he could. But of the three Courage was, if possible, the very happiest, for she had such a happy secret in her keeping—that is, in her pocket—for the mail had brought the expected letter. The secret, however, must stay a secret until she should reach Arlington and could have a little private talk with Joe; and so she hurried Harry along much faster than was at all to his liking, for Harry would have been glad to have that walk last for “a year and a day,” and so perhaps would Courage, save for the letter.
It was not that it contained any wonderful revelation—it simply said that unfortunately the asylum authorities knew nothing more of Sylvia’s antecedents than she herself knew; that she had simply been thrust in at the asylum door by some old woman who succeeded in beating a mysterious retreat into the darkness before any one had seen her. A scrap of paper pinned to her dress bore the name of Sylvia, and the statement that the child had neither father nor mother. In addition to this the only possible clew lay in two or three articles found at the time in Sylvia’s keeping. They had been given to her when she left the institution, the matron impressing upon her the need and importance of guarding them carefully, as they would possibly prove of great value some day. They regretted very keenly that they were unable to furnish any further information. But, nevertheless, the letter stirred the first real hope for Courage that Joe was right in his conjecture, for it reminded her of the little belongings Sylvia had once shown her—a coral necklace, a gay little silver belt set with imitation turquoise and rubies in great variety, and a much-used devotional book. She remembered there was no writing in the book save the name of what appeared to be some gentleman’s country-place and some date way back in the fifties. She could not recall the name, but she thought she would know it if she heard it, and felt quite sure, now that she came to think of it, that she had heard a name on Mammy’s lips that sounded like it. No wonder that something seemed far more important just then than even her own great happiness, and that she was impatient to reach Joe’s cabin.
“I will hurry on,” she said, when they came in sight of the cabin. “You capture Brevet, Harry, and make him understand that he will be reduced to the ranks if he says one word down here of what has happened up at Homespun—your mother must be the first to know.”
“You have set me a rather difficult task,” laughed Harry; but he saw the wisdom of it, and bearing down upon Brevet he detained him an unwilling little prisoner until he had extracted—but slowly and painfully it must be confessed—the required promise. Courage found the little cabin full; that is, Mary Duff, Sylvia and the children all were there as she expected, but a word to Mammy, to whom Courage’s slightest wish was law, and the little cabin was cleared in a twinkling, all hands finding themselves peremptorily shooed like a pack of geese to the pond below, under some foolish pretext or other.
“Has the letter come?” Joe asked, breathlessly. “Any news in it?”
“Yes, I have a letter,” and Courage drew a rocking-chair close to the bed; “but there is nothing new in it, only it suggests something to me. It speaks of some treasures of Sylvia’s that might throw a little light on the subject. I remember now that Sylvia once showed them to me, and I do not see why I have been so stupid as not to think of them before. They were a string of coral beads, a gay belt of some sort, and a little devotional book.”
“Anythin’ written in de book?” interrupted Joe, his clasped hands trembling with excitement.
“Nothing much, Joe. We mustn’t grow too hopeful quite yet, but I am quite sure it was some name such as would belong to a gentleman’s country-place, and I think I should recall it if I heard it. Now, doesn’t Mammy sometimes speak of the plantation where she used to live, by some name or other?”
“Sunnyside,” panted Joe, “Sunnyside; it’s on her lips eb’ry day or two. Do you t’ink—do you t’ink dat’s it?”
“Oh, I don’t dare to think, Joe, it would be so easy for me to be mistaken——”
“Call Mammy then, call Sylvy,” Joe cried, excitedly, “call dem quick!”
“Yes, I will call them right away, but, Joe, we must all try to be calm” (for she feared the effect of so much excitement). “You must be calm for your own sake, Joe, and for theirs, and if we should chance to be on the verge of a happy discovery, we must not spring it too suddenly upon them. Let me talk to them a little before you ask Sylvia about the name.”
But Courage in her own mind was quite joyously sure that Sunnyside was the name in the little book. Mammy and Sylvia came in answer to the call from Courage—Mary Duff and the Bennetts, wondering what was up, remained perforce just as obediently behind.
“Sylvia,” said Courage, signalling Joe to be quiet for a moment, “do you remember once showing me a little devotional book of yours? I was trying just now to remember its name.” “‘Words of Jesus,’ Miss Courage.”
“‘Words of Jesus,’” said Mammy solemnly. “Oh, but I loved dat little book. My Missus gave it to me years ago, an’ I gave it to my little girl when she was sol’ away from me way down in Alabama.”
“And, Sylvia, there were some other little things, were there not?”
“Yes, Miss Courage, a little string of coral beads, and a tinsel belt, you remember.”
Joe and Courage were looking straight at Mammy, who, ashy white under her dark skin, leaned against the foot of the bed; but Sylvia, all intent upon Joe, did not notice.
“Come nearer, chile,” said Joe, for his turn had come now, although his voice all but failed him as he took Sylvia’s hand in his. “Was somethin’ written in de little book?”
“Yes,” said Sylvia, her own voice unsteady now, for she knew there must be some object in all this questioning.
“Have a care now, Mammy,” cried Joe, exultingly. “Something may be going to happen, Mammy. Was it Sunnyside, chile?”
“Yes, it was Sunnyside,” she answered, eagerly. “What do you know about it, Joe?”
But before Joe could explain, Mammy’s arms were about her in one wild ecstasy of delight, and then dropping into a chair she drew Sylvia to her lap.
“O’ course it was Sunnyside, chile! what else could it be after yo’ sayin’ you owned de corals an’ de tinsel belt? I gave dem all three to my little daughter thirty years an’ more ago. Yo’ b’longs ter me!”
“But, Mammy dear, who do you suppose I am?” her arms close about Mammy’s neck.
“Yo’ my little gran’chile, Honey, my little gran’chile come back ter me after all dese years——-”
“But how can you be sure, Mammy? My having the things doesn’t surely make me your grandchild,” and Sylvia looked as though not to be able to be perfectly certain at last would quite break her heart.
“Sure by eb’ryt’ing ‘bout you, Honey; by yo’ face, by yo’ hands, by de way you walk, by yo’ ebery motion, by de way you drink a cup o’ tea. Maria was jus’ about yo’ age when she was sol’ away from me, an’ sometimes you’ve so much ‘minded me of her I could scarce bear to look at you, neber dreamin’ you could possibly b’long ter me. But, Sylvy,” and Mammy’s voice at once grew troubled with the thought that occurred to her, “why hab you neber done try to fin’ yo’ own people, chile?” "Why, Mammy! I knew nothing about myself at all. I was just pushed into the door of a coloured orphan asylum in Brooklyn, when I was a little bit of a girl, by a very old woman I remember, and I never saw or heard of her again. There was a little piece of paper pinned on to my dress which merely said, ‘This little girl hasn’t got any father or mother,’ and that my name was Sylvia.”
“Then yo’ mamma’s daid, is she?” said Mammy in a low voice, as though speaking to herself. “I wonder who she married an’ how she drifted ‘way up North, an’ why she never wrote to her old Mammy—but we’ll never know in dis work, will we, Honey?—but no matter, no matter, we’s got each oder now, Sylvy,” and Mammy stroked Sylvia’s hair with one trembling hand, as the happy realisation chased all the sadness from her face. “Maria coaxed that little belt from me,” she continued, never one moment taking her eyes from Sylvia’s face, “one day long ’fo’ she was sol’ from me. My Missus had given it to me when I was jus’ a slip of a girl. She gave me the dear book too, but I put that into Maria’s pocket an’ begged her to read it now an’ again, cause Maria allers seemed too lighthearted to give much ’tention to religion. Seems as d’ough I could hardly wait, Sylvy, to lay my eyes on d’ose little keepsakes once more. An’, Sylvy chile, do you ‘member what you said first words you spoke ter me an’ Joe? You said, ‘I thought I should find some of my own people down here in Virginia.’ ‘Lor, chile, you didn’t dream what gospel trufes you were speakin’.”
Meantime Harry and Brevet had appeared upon the scene, and astonished beyond measure at what they saw and heard, sat down on a bench beside the door and listened in mute wonder.
“But who,” said Mammy at last, when she could bring her confused thoughts into some sort of order, and with Sylvia still seated upon her lap, “who was de one to find all dis out for me?” turning toward Courage for an explanation. But Courage simply looked toward Joe for answer.
“Yes, Mammy,” replied Joe, leaning comfortably back against his pillows, the embodiment of dusky radiance, “I has dat honour, Mammy. Lyin’ here so helpless when I was first brought back ter de cabin, an’ watchin’ you an’ Sylvy move roun’ de room togeder, it came home ter me how you took after each oder in a hundred little ways, an’ den ’memberin’ how Sylvy had tol’ me one day how she knew nothin’ ’bout who b’longed ter her, it des ’spicioned me dat she might b’long to you, an’ so Miss Courage here, she wrote up to de ’sylum an’ de answer des come dis bery afternoon. But o’ co’se, as you know from Sylvy, dey couldn’t tell us nuffin, but ter ’mind Miss Courage of de little treasures Sylvy had in her possession, an’ den Miss Courage ’minded how Sylvy had once showed dem to her an’ how dere was somethin’ written in de little book, but o’ co’se we could not des be sure it was de same name as de ole plantation whar you lived till we sent for Sylvy an’ asked her. An’ oh! but it’s a happy day for Joe; de happiest day in all my life, an’ it’s all come of me being par’lysed an’ havin’ a chance ter notice,” and Joe spoke as though the paralysis was unquestionably something for which he had need to be devoutly thankful.
“Joe,” said Mammy, who had left her chair and was standing close at his bedside, “I’se been hard on you an’ unfair to you mos’ o’ my life, Joe,” and she stood looking down as shamefacedly as any little school culprit.
“Don’t you say nuffin, Mammy. Hasn’t I allers been hard on you an’ unfair to you?”
“Don’t either of you say anything,” interrupted Courage. “If ever two people in this world have made up for bygones, I think you two people have,” and Joe and Mammy shook their old heads in assent, for happily for them both they knew that Courage had spoken but the truth.
Meantime Brevet had slipped away and had enjoyed the exquisite pleasure of telling Mary Duff and the Bennetts the wonderful news, whereupon they had of course hurried pell-mell up to the cabin and joined in the general jubilation. It was well-nigh sunset before the good-byes were said—those last good-byes they had come for the purpose of saying—and before they were all started on their walk home.
Then Courage turned to Harry.
“I think I will run back and just tell Joe and Mammy——”
“Tell all the world,” said Harry, proudly, “the sooner the better.”
A few minutes later Courage appeared in the cabin doorway.
“Come here,” she said, motioning to Mammy and hurrying to Joe’s side. “There’s another secret in the wind this afternoon, and I want to tell it to both of you myself. I think I shall come down here to live for good and all before very long——”
“De Lord be praised!” ejaculated Joe and Mammy in one breath.
“And I’m coming because I am going to marry Harry Ellis——” “’Tis de Lord’s own doin’s,” cried Joe, fervently, “for we all need you.”
“And never you fear but Sylvia will live here too,” said Courage, turning radiantly to Mammy. Then in a flash she was gone to hurry after the little party over the road. With Harry and Brevet, Courage went straight up to Ellismere that night to see Grandma Ellis, and then another dear old heart was gladdened beyond all words by the good news she had to tell. The next day Courage went back to town with the Bennetts, leaving Sylvia to stay with Mammy until she should return, and Courage was to return before very long. A good deal had been talked over and arranged for in the evening spent at Ellismere, and among other things that there should be a wedding at Little Homespun late in October. By that time, probably, Joe would be able to drive up from Arlington, and Colonel Anderson would come down from Washington, and Courage knew that the Everetts and a few other dear friends would come down just as gladly from New York, and another matter that had been as fully agreed upon was, that although Courage’s home was to be at Ellismere for the winter, she and Harry should move up to Little Homespun the coming summer, and Mary Duff should bring down some other party of little city-children to run wild and enjoy all the delights of the unknown country just as the little Bennetts had done.
And so it came about that there was no real sadness in the good-byes which were said on the morrow—even the Bennetts found they were glad to go, now it came to the point, for when all is said, home is home the world over. Harry and Brevet drove up to Washington to see the little party off and then drove back to Ellismere, not saying much to each other by the way, but both very contented and happy. Brevet was humming his own favourite air, as in all serene and quiet moods, until at last as though to give vent to the joy within him he broke into the old words,—
“I’se a little Alabama Coon
I hasn’t been born very long-”
“Right you are,” laughed Harry, interrupting, “and a dear little coon into the bargain, and who has been born quite long enough to make the time tell.”
“What do you mean?” asked Brevet, with puzzled frown.
“Oh, I mean you’ve been born long enough to accomplish quite a great deal, on the whole, and the finest work you ever put in was up at Little Homespun yesterday.”
“You mean about asking Miss Courage to come back?”
“Exactly. I think your name will always stick to you now—I’m sure I shall never call you by any other——”
“You mean my name. Brevet?”
“Yes.”
“But why? I do not quite understand,” for Brevet’s ideas had really grown a little hazy as to the full meaning of his name.
“Why, Joe gave you the name, you remember, because that is a title given in the army simply as a reward of merit. You have the honour, that is, of being a captain without the responsibility. Now it seems to me the title belongs to you more than ever since yesterday afternoon. You sailed right in and have won all the glory of persuading Miss Courage to come back to Virginia, but I do not see that you have assumed a grain of responsibility. It is a serious thing to have induced her to exchange her home for ours. Now who’s going to see when she comes that she’s always perfectly happy and contented, I’d like to know?”
“You are the one to see to that, Uncle Harry. Isn’t that what husbands have to do? Besides, I don’t think it’s fair to blame me when you yourself wanted her so much to come.”
“Blame! bless your dear little heart! who thought of blame for a minute? Irresponsible little rascal though you be, you have earned your proud title and Brevet you shall be to the end of the chapter.”
Brevet did not quite understand this either, but that did not matter. He knew that he had succeeded in making everybody very happy, Uncle Harry in particular, and for the present that was quite enough to know and to understand.