Emma Campbell stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, lips pursed, eyes fixed on vacancy, a dish-cloth dangling from one hand, a carving-knife clutched in the other, and projecked. And the more she projecked about what was happening in Peter’s house, the less she liked it. It had never occurred to Emma Campbell that Peter might go away from Riverton. Yet now he was going, and it had been taken for granted that she, Emma, who, as she said, had “raised ’im from a puppy up’ards,” wouldn’t mind staying on here after his departure. Fetching a cold sigh from the depths of an afflicted bosom, Emma moved snail-like toward the work in hand; and as she worked she howled dismally that nobody knew the trouble she saw, “nobody knew but you, Lawd.”

When Peter came in to dinner, she addressed him with distant politeness as Mistuh Champneys, instead of the usual Mist’ Peter. When he spoke to her she accordion-plaited her lips, and stuck her eyes out at him. Her head, adorned with more than the usual quota of toothpicks, brought the quills upon the fretful porcupine forcibly to one’s mind.

Nobody but Peter Champneys could or would have borne with Emma Campbell’s contrary fits, but as neither of them realized this they managed to get along beautifully. Peter was well aware that when the car that had suddenly appeared in the night had just as suddenly disappeared in the morning in a cloud of dust on the Riverton Road, Emma’s peace of mind had vanished also. He understood, and was patient.

She clapped a platter of crisp fried chicken before him, and stood by, eyeing him and it grimly. And when hungry Peter thrust his fork into a tempting piece, “You know who you eatin’?” she demanded pleasantly.

Peter didn’t know whom he was eating; fork suspended, he looked at Emma questioningly.

“You eatin’ Lula, dat who you eatin’,” Emma told him with grisly unction. “Dem ‘s de same laigs use to scratch roun’ we kitchen do’. Dat ’s de same lovin’-hearted hen I raise fum a baby. But, Lawd! Whut you care? You ‘s de sort kin go trapesin’ off by yo’se’f over de worl’. You dat uppidy dese days, whut you care ’bout eatin’ up po’ lil Lula? She ain’t nobody but us-all’s chicken, nohow!”

Peter looked doubtfully at “po’ lil Lula’s” remains, and laid down his fork. Somehow, one can’t be keen about eating a loving-hearted hen.

“But, Emma, we eat our chickens all the time! You’ve fried me many a chicken without raising a row about it!” he protested.

“Who tol’ you dey wuz ours?”

As Peter hadn’t a fitting reply in return for this ambiguous query, Emma bounced out of the dining-room, to return in a moment with the tea-pot; when Peter held out his cup, she poured into it plain boiling water. At that she set the tea-pot hastily upon the table, threw her gingham apron over her head, and plumped upon the floor with a thud that made the house shake. It frightened the cat into going through the window at a leap, taking with him all the flowers planted in tomato-cans.

“Emma,” said Peter, severely, “I’m ashamed of you! Take that silly apron off your head and listen to me. You know very well you aren’t being left to shift for yourself. You’ll be provided for better than you’ve ever been. Why, all you’ll have to do ”

“All I ‘ll hab to do is jes’ crawl into my grave en stay dere. I done raised ’im fum de egg up, en now he ’s got comb en kin crow it ’s tail-feathers over de fence en fly off wid ’im! Ah, Lawd! You done made ’em en You knows whut roosters is like!”

“Emma! Look here, confound it! ”

“Who gwine look after ’im? I axes you fum my heart, who gwine do it? Never did hab no mo’ sense dan a rabbit widout I ’s by, en now dey aims to tun ’im loose! Ah, Lawd!”

“Emma, listen! Emma, what the ”

“Dem furrin women ’ll do ‘im lak dem women done po’ old Cassius. Dey ’ll conjure ’im! En widout I by, who gwine make ’im put one live frawg on ’is nekked stummick, so ‘s to sweat de speret o’ dat frawg een, en de speret o’ dat conjure out? No-buddy. Den he ’ll up en die. Widout one Gawd’s soul o’ ’is own folkses to put de coppers on ‘is eyes en’ tie up de corpse’s jaws. Ah Lawd, ah Lawd!”

“Oh, shut up, you old idiot! I’m not coming home to my meals any more, if this is how you’re going to behave!” This from Peter, disgustedly.

“Ain’t you, suh? All right, suh, Mistuh Champneys, you ’s be boss. But I glad to my Gawd Miss Maria ain’t ’yuh to see dis day!” And Emma began to sniffle.

Peter pushed his untouched dinner aside, and reached for his hat. He looked at Emma Campbell irefully.

“Damn!” exploded Peter.

Emma Campbell got to her feet with astounding quickness, ran into the kitchen, and returned in a moment with another platter of chicken, rice, and gravy.

“‘Yuh, chile. Set down en eat yo’ bittles. You ain’t called on to hab no hard feelin’s ’bout dis chicken. ‘T ain’t none o’ ours, nohow.” Peter resumed his chair and waived cross-examination.

Mr. Champneys having come, so to speak, between dark and daylight, Riverton knew nothing about his visit, for Peter hadn’t thought to inform them. This affair seemed so unreal, so improbable, so up in the air, that he dared not mention it. Suppose it mightn’t be true, after all. Suppose fate played a cruel joke. Suppose Mr. Champneys changed his mind. So Peter, who had a horror of talk, and writhed when asked personal questions by people who felt that they had a perfect right to know all about his business, kept strict silence, and enjoined the same silence upon Emma Campbell, who could be trusted to hold her tongue when bidden.

Now, one simply cannot remember the price of pots and pans and sheet-iron and plows and ax-handles, when one is living in the beginning of an astounding fairy story, when the most momentous change is impending, when one’s whole way of life is about to be diverted into different channels. The things one hates, like being a hardware clerk, for instance, automatically slide into the background when the desire of the heart approaches.

But Mr. Humphreys, whose mind and fortune naturally enough centered in his hardware store, couldn’t be expected to know that the impossible had happened for Peter Champneys. He would hardly be able to take Peter’s bare word for it, even if Peter should tell him: he didn’t know that his absent-minded clerk really liked him, and longed to tell him that he was leaving Riverton shortly he hoped for years and years and was only awaiting the message that should speed his departure. Mr. Humphreys, then, cannot be blamed for complaining with feeling and profanity that of all the damidjits he had ever seen in his life, Peter Champneys was about the worst. Loony was no name for him, and what was to become of such a chump he didn’t know. “If this thing keeps up, he’ll be drooling before he’s forty, and we’ll have to hire a nigger to feed him out of a papspoon,” said Mr. Humphreys, forebodingly.

And in the meanwhile the days dragged and dragged two whole weeks of suspense and expectancy. On the Monday of the third week the end of Peter’s waiting and of Mr. Humphreys’s patience came together. One, in fact, brought about the other. The postman who drove in with the daily mail brought for Peter Champneys the yellow envelope toward which he had been looking with such feverish impatience.

He was really to go! The young man experienced that reeling, ecstatic shock which shakes one when a long-delayed desire suddenly assumes reality. He stood with the telegram in his fingers, and stared about the dusty, dingy, uninteresting store, and saw as with new eyes how hopelessly hideous it really was; and wondered and wondered if he were really himself, Peter Champneys, who was going to get away from it.

At that moment stout old Mrs. Beach entered the store and waddled up to him. Mrs. Beach was a woman who never knew what she really wanted, or if, indeed, she really wanted anything in particular; but then again, as she said, she might. She didn’t like to leave her house often; and when she did finally make up her mind to dress and go out, she popped into every store she happened to pass, on the chance that she might want something from it, and would thus save herself an extra trip to get it. She would say to a perspiring clerk:

“Now, let me see: there’s something I wanted to get from this store. I know it, because on Tuesday last something happened to put me in mind of it or was it Wednesday, maybe? I know it’s something I need about the house or maybe the yard. You’ll have to help me out. I’ve got a poor memory, but you just sort of run over a list of things folks would be most likely to need and maybe you’ll hit on the right thing, and if it’s that I want, I’ll get it right now. Don’t stand there like a hitching-post, boy! Why can’t you suggest something, and help out a woman old enough to be your mother?”

If by some fortuitous chance you happened to hit upon an article she thought she might happen to need, and it suited her, she would buy it. But it never occurred to her to thank you for your help, or to apologize for the nerve-racking strain to which she subjected you.

“Young man,” said her testy voice in Peter’s ear, “I’ve got to get something and I can’t remember what it is. You’ve got to help me. I can’t be wasting my time at my age o’ life running around to hardware stores.”

Peter thrust the miraculous telegram in his pocket, where he could feel it burn and tingle. Oh, it was true, it was true! He was going to get away from all this!

“For heaven’s sake, boy, don’t stand there gawping at me like a thunderstruck owl! You surely know about everything you’ve got in this store, don’t you? Well, then, Peter Champneys, look about you and see if you can’t light on what I’m most likely to need!”

Peter, mind on the telegram in his pocket, did indeed look at the old lady owlishly. Hazily he remembered certain grueling, sweating half-hours spent in trying to discover what Mrs. Beach thought she might want to buy. Hazily he looked from her to the littered shelves, and reached for the first object upon which his eyes happened to fall.

“Yes ’m, Mrs. Beach. I reckon this is what you’d most likely need,” said Peter, gently, and placed in her hand a fine new muzzle. (Paris, maybe Rome; and Florence! Oh, names to conjure with! And he should see them all, walk their historic streets, view immortal work, stand before immortal canvases, and say with Correggio: “And I, too, am a painter!”)

“Oh, my dear Lord, save me from bursting wide open! Why, you impudent young reprobate!” Mrs. Beach’s outraged voice banished his dream. “For two pins, Peter Champneys, I’d take you across my knees and spank the seat off your breeches! I need a muzzle, do I? I’m to be insulted by a little squirt that’s just learning to keep his ears clean! Well! Girl and woman I’ve been dealing with Sam Humphreys and his father before him, but from this day forth I put no foot of mine across this store door!” All the while she spoke she brandished the muzzle at Peter and kept backing him off into a corner.

Mr. Humphreys came hurriedly out of his office upon hearing the uproar, and sought with soothing speech to placate his irate old friend and customer. But Mrs. Beach wasn’t to be placated. She went out of the door and down the street like a hat on a windy day.

Mr. Humphreys watched her go. Then he turned and looked at Peter Champneys, ominously:

“Peter,” Mr. Humphreys, carefully restraining himself, spoke in low and dulcet tones “Peter, I have tried to do my duty as a Christian man; now I have to do it as a hardware man, and right here is where you and I say good-by. I have passed over,” said Mr. Humphreys, swallowing hard, “your sending gravel to the grocer and a bellows to the minister by mistake; but this is the limit. If there is anybody advertising for a gilt-edged failure as a salesman, you go apply for the job and say I recommend you enthusiastically. I hate like the devil to fire you, Peter, but it’s a plain case of self-defense with me: I have to do it. You’re fired. Now. Come on in the office,” said Mr. Humphreys, eagerly, “and I’ll pay you off.”

Peter slid his hand into his pocket and pinched that precious slip of paper. Then he smiled into Mr. Humphreys’s empurpled visage.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Humphreys,” said he, gratefully. “I know just how you feel, and I don’t blame you in the least. I’ve been wanting to tell you I had to quit, and you’ve saved me the trouble.”

Sam Humphreys knew that Peter Champneys had no right to stand there and smile like that at such a solemn moment. He should have appeared ashamed, downcast, humanly perturbed; and he didn’t in the least.

“I’ve been wondering ever since the first day I hired you how I was going to keep from firing you before nightfall. Now the end’s come. Say suppose you go on home, right now. Because,” said Mr. Humphreys, softly, “I mightn’t be able to refrain from committing justifiable homicide. I’ll send you your salary to-night. Go on home. Please!”

To his horror, Peter Champneys of a sudden laughed aloud. It was genuine laughter, that rang true and gay and glad. His eyes sparkled, and a dash of good red jumped into his sallow cheeks.

“Good-by, then, Mr. Humphreys. And thank you for many kindnesses, and for real patience,” said Peter. He waved his hand at the dusty store in a wide-flung gesture of glad farewell.

“Oh, my God! He’s run plumb crazy!” cried Mr. Humphreys, mopping his brow. “I always said that boy wasn’t natural!”

But Peter, walking home in the bright afternoon sunlight, for the first time in his life felt young and free and happy. He wanted to laugh, to sing, to shout, to skip. Emma Campbell was just bringing the washed-and-dried dinner dishes back into the dining-room when he bounced in.

“Emma,” said he, sticking his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, and beaming at her, “Emma, I’m out of a job. Kicked out neck and crop. Fired, thank God!”

Emma stacked her dishes on the old deal dresser.

“Is you?”

“I sure am. And, Emma, listen. I I’m sort of waked up. Even if things shouldn’t turn out as I hope they will, I’ll manage to go ahead, somehow. I’d get out, now, under any circumstances. Pike’s Peak or bust!” said Peter.

“When you ’speck to go?”

“Just as soon as I can get out. I’m expected in New York within ten days at the latest. And then, Emma, the wide world! No more little-town tittle-tattle! All I’ve got to do, in the big world, is to deliver the goods. And I’m going to deliver the goods!” said Peter.

But Emma Campbell put her grizzled head on the dining-room table and began to cry.

“I nussed you w’en you had de croup en de colic. I used to tromp up en down dis same no’ wid you ’crost my shoulder. It was me dressed Miss Maria de day she married wid yo’ pa, en it was me dressed ’er for de coffin. You en me been stannin’ togedder ever sence. How I gwine stan’ by my alonese ‘f now? I olé now, Mist’ Peter.”

“Emma,” said Peter, after a pause, “tell me exactly what you want me to do for you and if I can I’ll do it.”

“I wants to go wid you. I jes’ natchelly ain’t gwine stay ’yuh by my alonese ’f,” wept Emma.

Peter looked at her with the sort of tenderness one must be born in the South to understand. Born in the last years of slavery, brought up in wild Reconstruction days, Emma couldn’t read or write. She wasn’t amenable to discipline. She was, as Cassius had complained, “so contrary she mus’ be ’flicted wid de moonness.” She wore a rabbit foot and a conjure bag and believed in ha’nts and hoodoos. But, as far back as he could remember, Emma Campbell had formed a large part of the background of his life. He wondered just what he would have done if it hadn’t been for Emma, after his mother’s death. There slid into his mind the picture of a shabby youngster weeping over a cheap green-and-gold Collection of Poetic Gems; and he reached over and laid a brown hand upon a black one.

“Well, and why not?” mused Peter. “You stood by me when I hadn’t any money; why should you leave me the minute I get it? But are you sure you really want to go along, Emma? I’m going into a foreign country, remember. You won’t be able to understand a word anybody says. You’ll be a mighty lonesome old nigger over there.”

“I can talk wid my cat, can’t I?”

“Holy Moses! What, the cat, too?” Peter ran his hands through his hair, distractedly.

“Whah you goes, I goes. En whah I goes, dat cat goes. Dat cat ’s we-all’s folks.”

“Oh, all right,” said Peter, resignedly. After all, Emma Campbell and the cat were all the folks he had.

He went to Charleston the next morning, in accordance with the instructions his uncle had given him in their last talk, and the bank at which he presented himself treated him with distinguished consideration. Peter heard for the first time the dulcet accents of Money.

Like Mr. Wilfer in “Our Mutual Friend,” Peter had never had everything all together all at once. When he had a suit his shoes were shabby, and when it got around to shoes his coat was shiny in the seams and his hat of last year’s vintage. He was boyishly delighted to buy at one time all that he wanted, but as made-to-order clothes were altogether outside of his reckoning as yet, he bought ready-made. His taste was too simple to be essentially bad, but you knew he was a country boy in store clothes and a made tie.

He had never been in Charleston before, and he reveled in the ineluctable charm of the lovely old town. No South Carolinian is ever disappointed in Charleston. Peter thought the city resembled one of her own old ladies, a dear dignified gentlewoman in reduced circumstances, in a worn silk gown and a mended lace cap and a cameo brooch. It might be against the old gentlewoman’s religious convictions to bestow undue care upon her personal appearance, but hers was a venerable, unforgetable, and most beautiful old face for all that, and perhaps because of it. She knew that the kingdom of God is within; and being sure of that, she was sure of herself, serene, unpainted, unpretentious.

Peter wandered by old walled gardens in which were set wrought-iron gates that allowed the passer-by a glimpse of greenery and flowers, but prevented encroachments upon family privacy. Every now and then a curving balustrade, a gable, a window, or an old doorway of surpassing charm made his fingers itch for pencil and paper. He reflected, without bitterness, that the doors of every one of these fine old houses had on a time opened almost automatically to a Champneys. Some of these folk were kith and kin, as his mother had remembered and they, perhaps, had forgotten. This didn’t worry him in the least: the real interest the houses had for Peter was that this one had a picturesque garden gate, that one a door with a fan-light he’d like to sketch.

He climbed St. Michael’s belfry stairway and looked over the city, and toward the sea; and later wandered through its historic churchyard. One very simple memorial held him longest, because it is the only one of its kind among all those records of state honor and family pride, and seems rather to belong to the antique Greek and Roman world which accepted death as the final fact, than to a Carolina churchyard.

SARAH JOHNSTON
born in this province
29th May
Died 26th April
In the 84th year of her age.

How lovd how valu’d once avails Thee not
To whom related or by whom begot
A heap of dust alone remains of Thee.

That covered the Champneyses, too. To whom related or by whom begot, a heap of dust alone remained of them. So much for all human pride! Peter left St. Michael’s dead to slumber in peace, and walked for an hour on the Battery, and in Legare Street, where life is brightest in the old city. All good Charlestonians think that after the final resurrection there may be a new heaven and a new earth for others, but for themselves a house in Legare Street or on the Battery.

Peter presently reappeared in Riverton, discreetly clad in his customary clothes, the habits of thrift being yet so firmly ingrained in him that he couldn’t easily wear his best clothes on a week-day.

“Peter! You Peter Champneys! Look here a minute, will you?” Mrs. Beach called, as he was passing her house.

Peter stopped. His smiling countenance somewhat astonished Mrs. Beach.

“Peter, I’ve heard about Sam Humphreys firing you on account of me getting mad at you about that muzzle. Now, while I know in my heart you’d have been fired about something or other, sooner or later, I do wish to my Lord it hadn’t been on account of me. Not that I don’t think you’re an impudent young rapscallion, that never sets his nose inside a church door, and insults old women with muzzles. But I knew your mother well, and I wish it wasn’t on account of me Sam Humphreys discharged you.” There was real feeling in the testy old lady’s face and voice.

“Don’t you bother your head about it one minute more, Mrs. Beach. All I’m sorry for is that I appeared to be impertinent to you, when I hadn’t any such notion. I was thinking about something else at the time. So you’ll just have to forgive me.”

“I do,” said the old lady, mollified. After all, Maria Champneys’s boy couldn’t be altogether trifling! “Is what I hear true, that you’re going away from Riverton? Folks say you’ve got a job in the city.”

“Yes ’m, I’m going away.”

“I reckon it’s just as well. You’ll do better away from Riverton. You’ll have to.”

“Yes ’m, I’ll have to,” agreed Peter. He held out his hand, and the old lady found herself wringing it, and wishing him good luck.

At home he found Emma Campbell carefully packing up all the worthless plunder it had taken her many years to collect. When he had heartlessly rejected all she didn’t need, she had one small trunk and a venerable carpet-bag. Everything else was nailed up. The house itself was to be looked after by the town marshal, who was also the town real-estate agent. Peter was very vague as to his return.

No railroad runs through Riverton, but the river steamers come and go daily, the town usually quitting work to foregather at the pier to welcome coming and speed departing travelers. All Riverton made it a point to be on hand the morning Peter Champneys left home to seek his fortune.

Peter never did anything like anybody else. There was always some diverting bit of individual lunacy to make his proceedings interesting. This morning Riverton discovered that Emma Campbell was going away, too. Emma appeared in a black cashmere dress, a blue-and-white checked gingham apron on which a basket of flowers was embroidered in red cross-stitch, and a white bandana handkerchief wound around her head under a respectable black sailor hat. She carried a large, square cage that had once housed a mocking-bird, and now held the Champneys big black cat. Laughter and delighted comments greeted the bird-cage, and her carpet-bag received almost as much attention and applause. Riverton hadn’t seen a bag like that since Reconstruction, and it made the most of its opportunity.

“Emma! Aren’t you afraid you’ll let the cat out of the bag?”

Emma remained haughtily silent.

“Emma, where you-all goin’?”

“We-all gwine whah we gwine, dat ’s whah we gwine.” This from Emma, succinctly.

“What you goin’ to do when you get there?” persisted the wag.

“Who, us? We gwine do whut you-all ain’t know how to do: we gwine min’ our own business,” said Emma, politely.

“Good-by, Peter! Don’t set the world on fire, old scout!”

When the boat turned the bend in the river that hid the small town of his birth from his view, Peter felt shaken as he had never thought to be. Good-by, little home town, where the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune had rained upon him!

The boat swung into a side channel to escape a sand-bar. She was in deep water, but very close to the shore, so close that he could see the leaves on the trees quivering and shimmering in the river breeze and the late summer sunlight. Over there, as the crow flies, lay the River Swamp, and Neptune’s gray, deserted cabin. They had been his refuge. No other place, no other woods in all the world could quite take their place, or be like them. And he knew there would be many a day when he must ache with homesick longing for the coast country, for the tide-water, and the jessamines, and the moon above the pines, and the scent of the bay in flower on summer nights. The world was opening her wide spaces. But the Carolina coast was home.

“I wish,” said Peter, and his chin quivered, “I wish there were some one thing that typified you, something of you I could take with me wherever I go. I wish you had a spirit I could see, and know.”

Out from the shore-line, where the earliest golden-rod was just beginning to show that it intended to blossom by and by, and the ironweed was purple, and the wild carrot was white and lacy, and the orange-red milkweed was about ready to close her house for the season, came fluttering with a quick, bold sureness the gallantest craft of all the fairy sail-boats of the sky, hovered for a bright second over the steamer’s rail, and scudded for the other shore.

Peter Champneys straightened his shoulders. Youth and courage and hope flashed into his wistful face, and brightened his eyes that followed the Red Admiral.