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Updated: May 3, 2025
Say to yourself sometimes perhaps when you have married some lady who is worthy of you There was good as well as bad in poor Emma. Farewell. Number Two From The Rev. Charles Fennick to Bernard Winterfield. The Rectory, Belhaven. Sir It is my sad duty to inform you that Mrs. Emma Winterfield died this morning, a little before five o'clock.
While he sat there, hating to move, Daddy Neptune Fennick came in sight, hoe and rake and ax on his sturdy shoulder. The old man cast a shrewd, weather-wise eye at the darkening sky. "Gwine to hab one spell o' wedder," he called. "Best come on home wid me, Peter, en wait w'ile." Even as he spoke a blaze of lightning split the sky and lighted up the swamp.
And Peter was always making pictures of them Mindel at the wash-tub, Emma Campbell picking a chicken, old Maum' Chloe churning, Liza playing with her fat black baby, Joe Tuttle plowing, old Daddy Neptune Fennick leaning on his ax.
One saw the sheriff on a large bay horse, a Winchester in the crook of his arm. With a merest glance at what had been Jake, he pushed his way through the throng, and was confronted by Peter Champneys standing in front of old Neptune Fennick, with a smoking shot-gun in his hands. "You better do something, quick! If you let anything happen to Daddy Nep, you've got to kill me first," panted Peter.
He relished the sweet earthy humor that brightens humble lives, the gaiety and charity under conditions which, when white men have to bear them, go to the making of red terrorists. Some of the things he saw and heard remained like scars upon Peter's memory. He will remember until he dies the June night he spent with Daddy Neptune Fennick in his cabin on the edge of the River Swamp.
The drink that vile habit which lost me your love and banished me from your house the drink is not to blame for this last misfortune. Only the day before it happened I had taken the pledge, under persuasion of the good rector here, the Reverend Mr. Fennick. It is he who has brought me to make this confession, and who takes it down in writing at my bedside.
When I am buried, and they show you my nameless grave in the churchyard, I know your kind heart I die, Bernard, in the firm belief that you will forgive me. There was one thing more that I had to ask of you, relating to a poor lost creature who is in the room with us at this moment. But, oh, I am so weary! Mr. Fennick will tell you what it is.
Fennick in my younger days, what a different woman I might have been! Well, regrets of that kind are useless now. I am truly sorry, Bernard, for the evil that I have done to you; and I ask your pardon with a contrite heart. You will at least allow it in my favor that your drunken wife knew she was unworthy of you. I refused to accept the allowance that you offered to me. I respected your name.
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