WHEN the moon had risen a little higher and its direct rays fell down through the glossy leaves onto that white, kingly face, another shadow fell on the green, blossomin’ sward, and a pale face looked through the branches, and Genieve stood there by the dead form of the man she worshipped.
It wuz all over. She could do nothin’—wimmen seldom can in tragedys arisin’ from grave political difficulties.
But there is one thing she can do—she is used to it—she can suffer. Genieve could throw herself down upon the silent, cold body of her lover, while like a confused dream the whole past rushed through her mind. Her glowing hopes cut short, her life’s happiness all slain by the enemies of truth. She could lie there and try to think of the years between her and death. How could she live them?
As she lies there prone in her helpless and hopeless wretchedness, she is not a bad symbol of her race.
Heart-broken, agonized through the ages, helpless to avenge her wrongs, too hopeless and heart-broken to attempt it if she could.
Her life ruin brought about by the foolishness of preachin’ what is wrong.
The happiness or the wretchedness of one colored woman is of too little account to make it a factor in the settlement of grave political affairs.
The tragedy in the magnolia shadows is nothin’ unusual; such things must occur in such environment—statesmen expect it.
And after all, they may reason, it is only the takin’ off of one of the surplus inhabitants. Indeed, some contend that the speedy extinction of all newly made citizens, colored, and troublesome, either South or West, is the surest and safest solution of the vexed problem.
And this is only one the less of an inferior race.
And yet as he lays there, his wide-open eyes look up into the bending heaven as if demanding justice and pity from Him who left thrones and divine glory to dwell with the poor and despised, who wept with them over their dead, and who is now gone into the heavens to plead their cause aginst their oppressors.
As he lays there his face is wet with tears of a very human anguish.
Somehow this easy answer is not workin’ well in this case.
And up in the mansion house grief wails for the eternal losses caused by this same blunder.
There are the innocent sufferin’ for the guilty. The old puzzle unfoldin’ itself anew—of the close links bindin’ human brotherhood. And how the rough breakin’ of one link is hazardous to all the golden rings of the chain that binds humanity together.
Poor Josiah Allen! the doctrine he preached so long—that if you let an evil alone it will do you no harm—wuz all broke down and crushed to pieces. Poor old man! mournin’ over the sweet bud that too ontimely perished in its first bloom.
Poor man! poor, broken-hearted old Grandpa—with the silver voice that used to make a music of that name stilled forever.
How can any pen, no matter how touched with flame from the altar, how can it picture that night? Maggie layin’ like death, passin’ from one faintin’ fit into another.
Thomas Jefferson, poor, poor boy, lookin’ up into my face with dumb pleadin’ for the comfort he could not find there.
No, I couldn’t comfort him at that time, for what wuz I a thinkin’ of, in the impatience of my agony, the onreasonableness of my bewildered, rebellious pain?
I said in them first hours, and I turned my face away from the light as I said it, “Darkness and despair is over the hull world. Snow is dead!”
And I thought to myself bitterly, what if the South duz rise up out of its dark dreams into a glorious awakenin’, a peaceful, prosperous future—what of it? Our darlin’, the light of our eyes, has gone forever. What can any sunshine do, no matter how bright, only to pour down vainly upon the sweet blue eyes that will never open again? And fur in the East a grand republic may rise holdin’ in its newer life the completed knowledge of the older civilizations. But Snow is dead!
Yes, I sez to myself, as did another, “If they want a new song for their Africa free, let none look to me,” I sez, “my old heart cannot raise to anthems of joy and glory.”
No; my heart is bendin’ over a little cold form. Between the sun-bright glory of that new and free land stands a little tender form with a bleedin’ stain on its bosom.
Or is it beckonin’? Was it the glow from them shinin’ curls that lightened the eastern sky? Duz she speak in the pathos and beauty of our hearts’ desire for a race’s freedom? Dear little soul, so pitiful of all sufferin’, duz she help them who loved her to be patient with ignorance, and intolerance, squalor, and power? Patient with all and every form of error and woe?
She lays under a flowery mound in the summer grounds of Belle Fanchon, close to the grave of the other little sleeper that slept so long there alone. The rivulet wraps its warm, lovin’ arms close about both little graves.
Near by, just across the valley, reposes the form of Victor the king. Victor over ignorance, over wickedness, victor over his enemies, for he died blessin’ them. How else could he get the victory over his murderers?
Ah! the flowers from these graves risin’ up together, will they not sweeten and purify the soil that nourishes them—subtle perfume risin’ out of the black soil and darkness, sweet and priceless aroma risin’ to the heavens?
Upon the ancient altars the ripe fruit wuz laid, and the flowers.
God knows best! Oh, achin’ heart, where the silken head rested, and which will be empty and achin’ forevermore; oh, streamin’ eyes, tear-blinded and anguished, that will never again see the sweetest form, the loveliest face that earth ever held, what can they say but this—God knows best!
And they can think through the long days and nights of hopelessness and emptiness, that her sweet, prophetic eyes have found the Realities made visible to her onknown to the coarser minds about her.
The Form that bent over her cradle and whispered to her has taken her now to a close and guardin’ embrace.
Wuz it some fair, sweet messenger, some gentle angel guide, or wuz there in the hands held out to her the mark of the nails?
The glow that lit up her shinin’ hair from some radiant realm onbeknown to us wraps her round in its pure radiance.
Little Snow has gone into the Belovéd City; but alas for the hearts that strive to follow her and cannot!
But her sweet little body is a layin’ close by the side of the little girl who went to sleep there thirty years ago.
Over her is a small headstone bearin’ this inscription: “Little Snow,” and under it are the only words that can give any comfort when they are cut in the marble over a child’s grave: “He carries the lambs in His bosom.”
And so as the years go on the leaves and blossoms will rustle in the soft mornin’ breeze over the two little girls sleepin’ in peace side by side in the old garden.
I wonder if they have found each other up in the other garden that our faith looks up to—if they have made garlands of the sweet flowers that have no earthly taint on ’em and don’t fade away, and crowned each other’s pretty heads. I wonder if they ever lean over the battlements of Heaven and drop any of them sweet posies on the bare, hard pathways their friends that they left below have to walk in.
Mebby so; mebby, when in our hard, toilsome day marches, a hint of some strange brightness and glory touches our poor tired spirits, when some strange comfort and warmth seem to come sudden and sweet onto us, comin’ from we know not where—mebby, who knows, but it is from the glowin’ warmth and beauty of them sweet invisible flowers that we cannot see, but yet are a lyin’ in our pathway, droppin’ on our poor tired heads and hearts.
I don’t know as it is so, and then, agin, I don’t know as it hain’t so.
