“Ol’ marse had only one chil’, a son; he was eddicated for a doctor, and of all the limb o’ de devil, he was de worst. After ol’ marse an’ ol’ miss’ was dead he took a shine to Mira, and for years he stuck to her in great shape. Her fust child was Reuel—”
“What!” shrieked Dianthe. “Tell me—quick, for God’s sake! Is he alive, and by what name is he known?” She was deathly white, and spread out her hands as if seeking support.
“Yes, he’s living, or was a year ago. He’s called Dr. Reuel Briggs, an’ many a dollar he has sent his ol’ granny, may the good Marster bless him!”
“Tell me all—tell me the rest,” came from the lips of the trembling girl.
“Her second child was a girl—a beautiful, delicate child, an’ de Doctor fairly worshipped her. Dat leetle gal was yourself, an’ I’m your granny.”
“Then Reuel Briggs is my brother!”
“Certain; but let me tell you de res’, honey. Dese things jes’ got to happen in slavery, but I isn’t gwine to wink at de debbil’s wurk wif both eyes open. An’ I doesn’t want you to keep on livin’ with Marse Aubrey Livingston. It’s too wicked; it’s flyin’ in de face ob Almighty God. I’se wanted to tell you eber sense I knowed who he’d married. After a while de Doctor got to thinkin’ ’bout keepin’ up de family name, an’ de fus’ thing we knows he up an’ marries a white lady down to Charleston, an’ brings her home. Well! when she found out all de family secrets she made de house too hot to hol’ Mira, and it was ordered that she mus’ be sold away. I got on my knees to Marse an’ I prayed to him not to do it, but to give Mira a house on de place where she could be alone an’ bring up de childrun, an’ he would a done it but for his wife.”
The old woman paused to moan and rock and weep over the sad memories of the past. Dianthe sat like a stone woman.
“Den I believe de debbil took possession of me body and soul. A week before my po’ gal was to be sol’, Misses’ child was born, and died in about an hour; at about de same time Mira gave birth to a son, too. In de ’citemen’ de idea come to me to change de babies, fer no one would know it, I being alone when de chil’ died, an’ de house wil’ fer fear misses would die. So I changed de babies, an’ tol’ Marse Livingston dat Mira’s boy was de dead one. So, honey, Aubrey is your own blood brother an’ you got to quit dat house mejuntly.”
“My brother!”
Dianthe stood over the old woman and shook her by the arm, with a look of utter horror that froze her blood. “My brothers! both those men!”
The old woman mumbled and groaned, then started up.
Aunt Hannah breathed hard once or twice. Minute after minute passed. From time to time she glanced at Dianthe, her hard, toil-worn hands strained at the arms of her chair as if to break them. Her mind seemed wavering as she crooned:
“My Mira’s children; by de lotus-lily on each leetle breast I claim them for de great Osiris, mighty god. Honey, hain’t you a flower on your breast?”
Dianthe bowed her head in assent, for speech had deserted her. Then old Aunt Hannah undid her snowy kerchief and her dress, and displayed to the terrified girl the perfect semblance of a lily cut, as it were, in shining ebony.
“Did each of Mira’s children have this mark?”
“Yes, honey; all of one blood!”
Dianthe staggered as though buffeted in the face. Blindly, as if in some hideous trance, reeling and stumbling, she fell. Cold and white as marble, she lay in the old woman’s arms, who thought her dead. “Better so,” she cried, and then laughed aloud, then kissed the poor, drawn face. But she was not dead.
Time passed; the girl could not speak. The sacrilege of what had been done was too horrible. Such havoc is wrought by evil deeds. The first downward step of an individual or a nation, who can tell where it will end, through what dark and doleful shades of hell the soul must pass in travail?
“The laws of changeless justice bind
Oppressor and oppressed;
And close as sin and suffering joined,
We march to Fate abreast.”
The slogan of the hour is “Keep the Negro down!” but who is clear enough in vision to decide who hath black blood and who hath it not? Can anyone tell? No, not one; for in His own mysterious way He has united the white race and the black race in this new continent. By the transgression of the law He proves His own infallibility: “Of one blood have I made all nations of men to dwell upon the whole face of the earth,” is as true today as when given to the inspired writers to be recorded. No man can draw the dividing line between the two races, for they are both of one blood!
Bending a little, as though very weak, and leaning heavily upon her old grandmother’s arm, Dianthe at length set out for the Hall. Her face was lined and old with suffering. All hope was gone; despair was heavy on her young shoulders whose life was blasted in its bloom by the passions of others.
As she looked upward at the grey, leaden sky, tears slowly trickled down her cheeks. “God have mercy!” she whispered.
XXII
For two
