Miss Mink's Soldier and Other Stories

								

my husband I'd laid a spell on him?"
"Dat's whut de signs p'int to," said Gordon Lee, doggedly.
Amanda rose, and it seemed to him that she towered to the ceiling. With
hands on hips and head thrown back, she delivered herself, and her voice
rang with suppressed passion.
"Yas, I laid a spell on yer! I laid a spell on yer when I let you quit
work, an' lay up in bed wid nothin' to do but to circulate yer symtems.
I put a spell on yer when I nuss you an' feed you an' s'port you an'
spile the life plumb outen you. I ain't claimin' 't wasn't rheumatism in
the fust place, but it's a spell now, all right--a spell I did lay on
yer, a spell of laziness pure an' simple!"
After this outburst the relations were decidedly strained in the little
cabin at the far end of Hurricane Hollow. Gordon Lee persistently
refused to eat anything his wife cooked for him, depending upon the
food that Aunt Kizzy or other neighbors brought in.
To Amanda the humiliation of this was acute. She used every strategy to
conciliate him, and at last succeeded by bringing home some pig's feet.
His appetite got the better of his resentment, and he disposed of four
with evident relish.
With the approach of winter, however, other and graver troubles
developed. The rent of the cabin, which had always been promptly paid
out of Gordon Lee's wages, had now to come out of Amanda's limited
earnings. Two years' joint savings had gone to pay the doctor and the
druggist.
Amanda gave up the joys of club life, and began to take in small
washings, which she did at night. Gordon Lee, surrounded by every luxury
save that of approbation, continued to lie on his back in the white bed
and nurse his hallucinations.
"'Mandy," he said one morning as she was going to work, "wished you'd
ast Marse Jim ef he got a' ol' pair of pants he could spare me."
Her face brightened.
"You fixin' to git up, Honey?" she asked hopefully.
"No, I's jes collectin' ob my grave-clothes," said Gordon Lee. "Dere's a
pair ob purple socks in de bottom drawer, an' a b'iled shirt in de
wardrobe. But I been layin' heah steddyin' 'bout dat shirt. Hit's got
Marse Jim's name on de tail of it, an' s'pose I git to heaben, an' St.
Peter he read de name an' look hit up in de jedgment book. He's 'lowable
to come to me an' say, 'Huccome you wearin' dat shirt? Dey ain't but one
James Bartrum writ down in de book, an' he ain't no colored pusson.'
'Co'se I could explain, but I's got 'splainin' 'nough to do when I git
to heaben widout dat."
Amanda paused with her hand on the doorknob.
"Marse Jim'll beat you to heaben; that is, ef he don't beat you to the
bad place first. You git that idea of dyin' outen yer mind, and you'll
git well."
"I can't git well till de hoodoo's lifted. Aunt Kizzy 'lows--"
But the door was slammed before he could finish.
The limit of Amanda's endurance was reached about Christmas-time. One
gloomy Sunday afternoon when she had finished the numerous chores that