"G.o.d be thanked for you, Milly! You have given me a new life!" he said lovingly. We talked the matter over in every light, found out the best trains, and I promised to have a small valise packed for him. He was to come home to get it and the five hundred dollars at six in the evening.
All day I went about like a woman in a dream. When the clock struck six, every stroke was on my heart. Then I waited for the turn of the key in the lock, and the sound of footsteps. All was strangely silent.
I was sick with fear. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven o"clock struck, but Robert did not come--did not even send any message. I could wait no longer. Something must be done, but what? Whom must I go to now, that it was near midnight? My own household was fast asleep. Peter Grey was not now at his office. I did not know where he lived. There were no telephones in those days. I watched and watched for a policeman, but none came to this quiet corner of the North Side; and I could not leave a house full of girls, and my own children alone. I slept none all night. I was on the alert for any call that might come.
It was bitterly cold. I went down stairs and brought up coal, and sitting down by the fire, suddenly found my dress, which was of silk, burning. I put the fire out, and then saw it was six o"clock. The servants began to move about; I went to my room. Oh, if the daylight would come! And I had to go to the breakfast table, and give the orders for the day"s work. I do not know how I did it. I was dressing to go to Peter Grey"s office when he called.
The thing that I feared had come to me. Robert was in the power of his enemy, and there followed an interval of ten days of supreme agony and suspense; then Robert was triumphantly justified in the sight of all men. But I will not, can not, enter into details. The men are both dead--dying almost at the same moment, though Robert was in Texas, and the other one in a far northwestern state; but I have no doubt whatever, that Robert"s soul in pa.s.sing called his soul, for he told him he would do so. I will go into no details of this tragedy, for there is no good to be gained by compelling myself to live over again those terrible ten days and nights. Time cancels, and I have forgiven.
But if anything could make me do this thing, it would be solely and entirely, that I might glorify the wonderful way, in which the Great and Holy One wrought out our salvation, and that by means so insignificant, that even the hatred of h.e.l.l had overlooked them. "We were brought low, and He helped us." He raised up also a host of unknown friends, and the way that had seemed impossible was made clear and easy. I did things at that time that appear incredible to me now, and all I did prospered.
In those days I did not think of tears, but it was then I learned to pray, to take heaven by a.s.sault, to press forward and upward, bent on prevailing. Such prayer is the gift of G.o.d, and when He gives it, He gives all it asks with it. This was one of those chasms of life, for which we must have wings--the wings of prayer.
The day after our victory was Thanksgiving Day. The scholars had all gone home, and Robert and I were sitting still and almost speechless in our parlor with the children playing quietly beside us. We were both weary, and looked very much like two strong swimmers who had just--and only just--escaped the treacherous under-current carrying them to destruction. I was hardly able to open my eyes, and too tired to lift the hands that hung by my side. Robert was more restless.
Finally he rose and walked about, saying softly, and in a kind of rapture, "A wonderful Thanksgiving! We won a great victory, Milly--by G.o.d"s help!"
"Yes, G.o.d won it for us. A great victory, Robert, but after a victory, the new situation will bring the new struggle. We must be ready for it. What will you do now?"
"We must remain here for the present."
Just as he said these words, his a.s.sumed friend Peter Grey entered. He had come to congratulate Robert in the first instance, but when he had spoken of the enthusiastic partizanship of every one, he asked, "How soon can you get away, Robert, for your life is not worth a cent here."
"I have made up my mind to stay here, Grey."
"Let me tell you something--in fact, I came here specially to tell you; better get away tonight. Tomorrow there will be an attempt to arrest you for debt."
"Debt?"
"Yes, if that does not work, you will go out some day, and never come back."
"I will go armed."
"A pistol will not help you. Some rough in the crush of the North River Bridge, will push you into the black Illinois River, and you will not be seen again till the ice breaks up. Then it will be an accident. Such accidents happen too frequently to be all accidents, and there are plenty of men--among our low aliens, who would give you "the push" for a dollar. If you stay here, you must not leave the house."
Grey only voiced my own fears, and I seconded his advice as urgently as I could. Robert was unusually calm and answered, "It may be as you say, Grey, and I will go tomorrow night."
"West, I suppose?"
"I think of Kansas City."
"That is a good place."
When he went away, I looked steadily at Robert and asked, "Will you wait until tomorrow?"
"No, love, I will go tonight. There will be no crush on the bridge tonight. It will be as empty as it is on Sunday."
"Why did you tell him tomorrow?"
"It is a case of life and death. I will trust no one."
"Oh!"
"He is a black Highland Celt. He would sell his brother for a bawbee.
I believe he is a spy for my enemies. Take care of him--talk as you do _not_ mean before him."
Then we went upstairs together, and I repacked his valise, and showed him the one thousand dollars I had saved. "I call it my emergency fund," I said, and I counted out five hundred dollars. He quietly pushed four hundred dollars back to me. "One hundred is sufficient for me," he said. "It will take me to Memphis, and there I shall find work and friends."
It was then five o"clock, and I had tea brought to the parlor fireside, and saw that Robert had a good meal. There was no necessity for hurrying it, and without tears, and with sad little efforts to be hopeful and cheerful, we ate what might be our last meal together. As we finished it, the children came in to say good night and I turned away until that loving ceremony was over. Then I brought him his hat and coat, and we were both silent as he put them on. Indeed there was no room for words. All had been said. And equally it was no time for tears. We looked at each other and parted. Until his strong, swift steps were no longer audible on the wooden pavements, I stood at the open door. When I could neither see nor hear him, I went in, called a servant, and had the children"s cots removed to my room and when the fire had been rebuilt, and plenty of wood brought, I locked myself in.
That night I went to bed without prayer. I only told G.o.d, as I undressed, that I was too tired and too sorrowful. And G.o.d knew, knew all about it, and gave me the sweetest night"s sleep I ever remember.
For while I had sunk even below the tide of dreams, some power removed all the miserable debris of the late calamity, swept away seemingly insurmountable obstacles, and made the way before me clear and straight. When I opened my eyes, the old cheerful morning call of my girlhood came pealing through my memory, "_Awake, Amelia! There is a charge for thy shield today!_" And I knew instantly that all my old fearlessness had come back to me. In that deep tide of unconscious sleep I had renewed myself. I looked young and cheerful, and felt able to manage all I had to do.
The first thing was to write to every pupil, thank them for their sympathy and support, and bid them a final farewell. It was not likely I should meet any of them again, and I never have; though from time to time in later years, I have had many refreshing words from dear old ladies, once my pupils. I wrote to each girl and enclosed a bill for the sum due me for two months" teaching et cetera. I had small hopes of these bills being honored in time for me to receive them, but I was pleasantly surprised to find them, with but one exception, immediately and generously answered. Five out of the number sent me the price of the whole session. Three offered pecuniary a.s.sistance, if I needed it, and every remittance was accompanied by affectionate wishes and remembrances. The one letter of refusal, ran as nearly as I can remember thus:
MISSISS BARR,
As you have not kept your bargains about your teaching, I shall not keep my bargains about paying for same.
The things to be taken, and the things to be left, was my next consideration, and I went out and bought two large trunks for the household and personal belongings, that were to go with us to Texas.
My great perplexity was to get something small enough for one person to carry, and yet large enough to hold such clothing for myself and children as would be necessary while traveling. The miraculous contrivances for women"s comfort in such circ.u.mstances, common enough today, were then unknown; and I found myself left to a choice between carpet bags, tin band boxes, and small trunks. Considering that I would in any case be obliged to hire a man to carry either bag, box or trunk, I chose the latter, buying also a small bag I could hang over my arm, to carry medicines, comb and brush, and such trifles as it might be necessary to reach quickly, or to use frequently.
Then I went through the house, room by room, selecting what was worth while, leaving everything not likely to be of practical value in the making of a new home. Many a heartache this task gave me; and after the trunks had been packed, I pushed into odd corners all kinds of pretty mementoes; one I specially remember--a tortoise sh.e.l.l box, mounted and trimmed elaborately with silver. It had been given me by my bridesmaid, and she was now dead. Somehow, I could not let her gift go into the hands of strangers.
When the packing was finished, I began to look for a letter from Robert. It came long before I expected it, for he had found when he reached Cairo, that there was no boat going South for two days, and so had taken a train for Memphis. We had not thought of this contingency, but I was glad of it, for I immediately dispatched the two large trunks to Memphis by train, notifying Robert to look out for their arrival. In his letter, a very cheerful hopeful letter, he said that he was delighted with Memphis, and was busy opening a new set of books for the great cotton house of Calvin Fackler and Company.
I was now happy and busy, but there was much yet to be done; much that was very difficult and hard for me to face. One thing was the little chest of silver. It would be out of all place in our new home, and the money it would bring more useful. I had also some jewelry I should hardly care to wear on the frontier. It also could be turned into money. I did not care to ask Peter Grey, or any one I knew to sell these things for me. So I wrote to the best jeweler and silversmith in Chicago, told him what I had for sale, and asked him to come and see the goods. He answered my letter in person, looked at the silver and made me an offer which I accepted. Then he asked for the jewelry, and I showed him what I possessed. It was beautiful, but not very valuable, the best pieces being a set of white cameos, necklace, bracelets, and brooch. Robert gave them to me the day before our marriage, and I had to bite my under lip as I laid them beside the silver. I had not worn them a dozen times, and as jewelry I did not care for them, yet--well, it was only sentiment, gold would be better.
All my pretty trifles of rings and brooches and bracelets went without much regret. I reserved nothing but the diamond hoop guarding my wedding ring, and those Scotch agate bracelets, which I considered valueless and threw into a corner of my trunk. That was the end of these things for me. I wonder who wears the white cameos today, and I hope the silver brightens the family table of some happy and prosperous home.
This was the hardest duty I had to do; after it, all went easily to its appointed end. I was afraid I should have to tolerate a public auction of my furniture, but the house was suddenly rented, and the new comers were glad to buy all I wished to sell, and to settle at once in a home unknowingly prepared for them. I was by this time nearly ready to shake the dust of Chicago from my feet, and I gave place to the new tenants cheerfully and went to the Richmond House for a couple of days.
It was on Christmas Day, 1856, that I began my new exodus, a bitterly cold gray day. The train left at two o"clock, and the streets were quiet and almost deserted, save for a few pedestrians hurrying to their homes or friends. My thoughts were full of the child I was leaving behind me in that desolate, sandy place of graves, outside the city, where I had suffered and lost so much.
Travel was travail then. There were no Pullman cars, and few conveniences, and even something to eat was not always to be counted on for long distances. But I was young and full of life and spirit, and everybody was eager to help me. The first night I got the porter to bring me pillows and I laid my children on the sofa at the end of the car, and then sat down opposite to watch them. I could hardly keep my eyes open; indeed I think I was dropping asleep, when a kindly-looking man said, "Let me watch your children. I am used to waking all night, and sleeping all day. I will take good care of them."
So I left them in his care, and slept as soundly as the children did.
All the way to Cairo he looked after food, and fresh food, and fresh milk, and anything needed for our comfort. I do not remember how long we were in reaching Cairo. I think two days and two nights, but it might be nearly three days, for it was dusk when we came to the place.
At that time it was not much of a place, and d.i.c.kens" description of it, under the name of _Eden_ in "Martin Chuzzlewit" was not, I dare say, much, if in any way, an exaggeration. It stood at the junction of the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers down in the mud of their overflowing waters.
My friend looked troubled as we approached the place. "You have a hard bit to get over here," he said. "I will help you as far as possible, but we must hire a couple of negroes to help us."
There were plenty of negroes loafing about the little station, and he called a big black man and said, "Uncle, give this lady your arm, and be sure to keep her on her feet." Another negro was called to carry the trunk. Then I asked anxiously,
"The children?"
"I will take care of the children," he said; "now follow me."
It was the hardest feat I ever performed. The road was down a steep hill, ankle deep in liquid mud of the stickiest description. The steamer lay at the foot of this hill, and the flaming pine knot lights, the shouts of the negro stevedores, and the swearing, quarreling teamsters, the screams of men and women fast in the mud, and the escaping steam and ominous ringing of a bell, were but items in the h.e.l.lish confusion. Almost fainting, and wanting one shoe, I reached the boat at last, and sat down with a feeling of slipping away. But the children were all right, and the trunk was there, too, and the man who had helped me so bravely and kindly smiled, and said, "Now you will be comfortable, and I must go, or I shall miss my train."
I have always had a fear that I thanked him very badly, but so good a man would forgive me for being frightened and unable to find the best words. I never asked his name, and I do not remember that he asked mine, but if we meet in any other life, I shall know him by the kindness in his eyes, and the gentleness of his voice and manner.
In a few minutes the purser gave me a nice roomy cabin, and a kind helpful old negro woman took me and the children to its comfortable seclusion. She knew just what I needed, and just what to do for me; and after I had put on clean clothing, she brought us a delicious dinner in our cabin. It was one of the dinners I remember in my life.
I think I never tasted food so delicately and tastefully cooked, and the children thought so with me. We ate and laughed and talked about the journey, until we were satisfied and sleepy; then I just whispered the last verse of the fourth Psalm, and lay down and slept until bright sunshine was flooding every corner of our little chamber.