CHAPTER X.

MASTER IN THE KITCHEN.

The kitchen had been a scene of anything but culinary peace and savor

during the long visit of the owner of the hat.

Aunt Hominy and the little darkeys had made three stolen visits to the

hall to peep at the dreadful thing hanging there, as if it were a trap

of some kind, liable to drop a spring and catch somebody, or to explode

like a mortar or torpedo. As hour after hour wore on, and Miss Vesta did

not reappear, and finally rang her bell for tea, Aunt Hominy was beside

herself with superstition.

"Honey," she exclaimed to Virgie, "jess you take in dis yer dried lizzer

an' dis cammermile, an' drap de lizzer in dat ole hat, an' sprinkle de

flo' whar ole Meshach sots wi' de cammermile, an' say 'Shoo!' Maybe

it'll spile his measurin' of Miss Vessy in."

"No, aunty, if old Meshach measured _me_ in, I wouldn't make the family

ashamed before him. Miss Vessy is powerful wise, and maybe she'll get

the better of that wicked hat."

"Yes," said Roxy, "she's good, Aunt Hominy, an' says her prayers every

night and mornin'. I've heard tell that witches can't hear the Lord's

name, and stay, nohow. Maybe Miss Vessy'll say in Meshach's old hat:

'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, bless the bed that I lie on.' That'll

make the old devil jess fly up an' away."

"No, gals," insisted Aunt Hominy, "cammermile is all dat'll keep him

from a-measurin' of us in. Don't ole Meshach go to church, too, and hab

a prayer-book an'--listen dar, honey! ef she ain't a singin' to him!"

As Virgie answered the bell, Aunt Hominy took down her cherished

camomile and sprinkled the little children, and gave them each a glass

of sassafras beer to bless their insides.

"Lord a bless 'em!" exclaimed the old lady, "ef de slave-buyer comes,

Aunt Hominy'll take 'em to de woods an' jess git los', an' live on

teaberries, slippery-ellum, haws, an' chincapins. We don't gwyn stay an'

let ole Meshach starve us like a lizzer."

"Aunt Hominy," said Roxy, "maybe, old lady, ef you bake a nice loaf of

Federal bread, or a game-pie, or a persimmon custard, an' send it to ole

Meshach, he won't sell us to the slave-buyers. He never gets nothing

good to eat, an' don't know what it is. A little taste of it'll make him

want mo'."

"Roxy, gal," said Aunt Hominy, "I'd jess like to make a dumplin'-bag out

o' dat steeple-hat he got. When I skinned de dumplin' de hat would be

bad spiled, chillen, an' den de Judge would git his lan' back dat

Meshach's measured in. For de Judge would say, 'Meshach, ye hain't

measured me fair. Wha's yer yard-stick, ole debbil?' Den Meshach he say,

'De hat I tuk it in wid, done gone burnt by dat ole Hominy, makin' of

her puddin's.' 'Den,' says de Judge, 'ye ain't measured me squar. I

won't play. Take it all back!' Chillen, we must git dat ar ole hat, or

de slave-buyers done take us all."

They started to take another peep of cupidity and awe at the storied

hat, when Virgie emerged from the parlor door with the dreaded article

in her hand, and, hanging it on the peg, came with superstitious fear

and relief into the colonnade. Aunt Hominy hurried her to the kitchen,

strewed her with herb-dust, waved a rattle of snake's teeth in a pig's

weazen over her head, and ended by pushing a sweet piece of preserved

watermelon-rind down her throat.

"Did it hurt ye, honey?" inquired Aunt Hominy, with her eyes full of

excitement, referring to the hat.

"'Deed I don't know, aunty," Virgie answered; "all I saw was Miss Vessy,

looking away from me, as if she might be going to be ashamed of me, an'

I picked the thing up an' took it to the rack; an' all I know is, it

smelled old, like some of the old-clothes chests up in the garret, when

we lift the lid and peep in, an' it seems as if they were dead people's

clothes."

The little negroes, Ned, Vince, and Phillis, heard this with shining

eyes, and dived their heads under Aunt Hominy's skirts and apron, while

the old woman exclaimed:

"De Lord a massy!" and began to blow what she called "pow-pow" on the

girl's profaned fingers.

"I don't believe it's anything, aunty, but an ugly, old, nasty, dead

folks' hat," exclaimed Virgie. "He just wears it to plague people. He

was drinking tea just like Miss Vessy, but I thought his teeth chattered

a little, as if he had smelt of the old hat, and it give him a chill."

"Where did he get the hat, Aunt Hominy?" Roxy asked. "Did he dig it up

somewhere?"

The question seemed to spur the cook's easy invention, and, after a

cunning yet credulous look up and down the large kitchen, where the pale

light at the windows was invisible in the stronger fire beneath the

great stack chimney, Aunt Hominy whispered:

"He dug dat hat up in ole Rehoboff ruined churchyard. He foun' it in de

grave."

"But you said this afternoon, aunty, that the Bad Man gave it to him."

"De debbil met him right dar," insisted Aunt Hominy, "in dat ole

obergrown churchyard, whar de hymns ob God used to be raised befo' de

debbil got it. He says to Meshach: 'I make you de sexton hyar. Go git de

spade out yonder, whar de dead-house used to be, an' dig among de graves

under de myrtle-vines, an' fin' my hat. As long as ye keep de Lord an'

de singin' away from dis yer big forsaken church, you may keep dat hat

to measure in eberybody's lan'.' So nobody kin sing or pray in dat

church. Nobody but Meshach Milburn ever prays dar. He goes dar sometimes

wid his Chrismas-giff on he head, an' prays to de debbil."

Thus does an unwonted fashion arouse unwonted visions, as if it brought

to the present day the phantoms which were laid at rest with itself, and

they walked into simple minds, and produced superstition there.

Aunt Hominy never was stimulated to inventions of this kind, but she

immediately absorbed them, and they became religious beliefs with her.

Her manner, highly animated by her terror and belief, produced more and

more superstition in the minds of the girls and children, and the

conversation fell off,--the little negroes wandering hither and thither,

unable to sleep, yet unable to attract sufficient attention from any

one, till Judge Custis, who had been waiting for hours for his creditor

to go, slipped down the back stairs in his old slippers, and came to the

kitchen among the colored people for company's sake.

His fine presence, and familiar, if superior, address, put a new

complexion at once on the African end of the house.

He picked up all the children by twos or threes, woolled them, chased

them, tossed them, and drove the lurid images of Aunt Hominy's mind out

of their spirits, and then caught the two young girls, and set Roxy on

his shoulder, and caught Virgie by the waist, and finally piled them on

Aunt Hominy, who ran behind her biscuit-block, and he bunched all the

children upon the party.

"De Lord a massy, Judge!" exclaimed Aunt Hominy, delighted, and showing

her white teeth, whichever side she revealed. "Go 'long, Judge, Missy

Custis ketch you! Miss Vessy's a-comin', befor' de Lawd!"

The children were screaming, getting into the riot more, while

pretending to try to get out, invading the Judge's back, and rubbing

their clean wool into his whiskers, and the two neat servants, brought

up like white children in his family, were not unaccustomed to either

jovial handling or petting from their master, which he commonly

concluded by a present of some kind.

"Old woman," said the Judge to Aunt Hominy, "can you give me a bit of

broiled something for my stomach? I want to eat it right here."

"Ha! yah! Don't got nothin' but a young chicken, marster! Mebbe I kin

git ye a squab outen de pigeon-house in de gable-yend."

"That's it, Hominy!" exclaimed Judge Custis; "a tender squab, a little

toast in cream, a glass of morning milk, and a bunch of fresh celery,

will just raise my pulse, and put courage into me. Get it, my faithful

old girl; it's the last I may ask of you, for old Samson Hat is going to

own you next."

"Me? No, sah! I'll run away from Prencess Anne fust. De man dat cleans

ole Meshach Milburn's debbil hat sha'n't nebber hab me."

"Well, it'll be one of you. If you don't take Samson, Roxy must, or

Virgie. The old fellow will be very influential with our new master,

and, Hominy, we're all depending on you to make him so comfortable that

he will just keep the family together."

Sobriety came in on this attempted witticism, and the old cook saw a

film grow into the Judge's smiling eyes.

"Old marster!" she exclaimed, raising her hands, "you's jess a-sottin'

dar, an' breakin' your poor heart. Don't I know when you is a-makin'

believe? Mebbe dis night is de las' we'll ever see you in your own warm,

nice kitchen, an' never mo', dear ole marster, kin Hominy brile you a

bird or season de soup you like. Bless God, dis time we'll git de squab

an' de celery an' de toast, befo' ole Meshach Milburn measures all we

got in!"

While the children crawled around the Judge's knees, setting up a dismal

wail to see him sob, the two neat house girls, forgetting every

contingency to themselves, sobbed also, like his own daughters, to see

him unmanned; but Aunt Hominy only felt desperately energetic at the

chance to cook the last supper of the Custis household.

She lighted a brand of pine in the fire, and started one of the stable

boys up a ladder by its light to ransack the pigeon-cote, and in a very

little while both a chicken and a bird were broiled and set upon the

kitchen-table upon a spotless cloth, and the plume of lily-white celery,

and the smoking toast in velvet cream, warmed the Judge's nostrils, and

dried his tears.

Roxy stood behind him to wait upon his wishes; Virgie subdued every

expression of grief, and comforted the children, and poor Aunt Hominy,

with silent tears streaming down her cheeks to see him eat and suffer,

kept up a clatter of epicurean talk, lest he might turn and see her

miserable. As he finished his meal, and took out his gold tooth-pick,

and felt a comfortable joy of such misery and sympathy, Vesta opened the

door, and said:

"Papa!"

"My child?"

"Let me speak with you."

Judge Custis rose, and raised his hands to Aunt Hominy in speechless

recognition of her service; but not till the door closed behind him did

the old cook's cry burst through her quivering lips:

"Oh! chillen, chillen, he'll never eat no mo' like dat again. Ole

Meshach's measured him in!"