One day—it was a warm Saturday, giving promise of a long hot Sunday to follow—Mr. Sanders was on his way home, feeling very blue indeed. He had been to town on no particular business—the day was a half-holiday with the field-hands—and he had wandered about aimlessly, making several unsuccessful efforts to crack a joke or two with such acquaintances as he chanced to meet. He had concluded that his liver was out of order, and he wondered, as he went along, if he would create much public comment and dissatisfaction if he should break his promise to Nan Dorrington by purchasing a jug of liquor and crawling into the nearest shuck-pen. It was on this warm Saturday, the least promising of all days, as he thought, that he stumbled upon an adventure which, for a season, proved to be both interesting and amusing.
He was walking along, as has been said, feeling very blue and uncomfortable, when he heard his name called, and, turning around, saw a negro girl running after him. She came up panting and grinning.
"Miss Ritta say she wish you'd come dar right now," said the girl. "I been runnin' an' hollin atter you tell I wuz fear'd de dogs 'd take atter me. Miss Ritta say she want to see you right now."
The girl was small and very slim, bare-legged and good-humoured. Mr. Sanders looked at her hard, but failed to recognise her; nor had he the faintest idea as to the identity of "Miss Ritta." The girl bore his scrutiny very well, betraying a tendency to dance. As Mr. Sanders tried in vain to place her in his memory, she slapped her hands together, and whirled quickly on her heel more than once.
"You're a way yander ahead of me," he remarked, after reflecting awhile. "I reckon I've slipped a cog some'rs in my machinery. What is your name?"
"I'm name Larceeny. Don't you know me, Marse Billy? I use ter b'long ter de Clopton Cadets, when Miss Nan was de Captain; but I wan't ez big den ez I is now. I been knowin' you most sence I was born."
"What is your mammy's name?"
"My mammy name Creecy," replied the girl, grinning broadly. "She cookin' fer Miss Ritta."
Mr. Sanders remembered Creecy very well. She had belonged to the Gaither family before the war. "Where do you stay?" he inquired. He was not disposed to admit, even indirectly, that he didn't know every human being in the town.
"I stays dar wid Miss Ritta," replied Larceeny. "I goes ter de do', an' waits on Miss Nugeeny."
"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, with a smile of satisfaction. Here was a clew. Miss Nugeeny must be Eugenia Claiborne, and Miss Ritta was probably her mother.
"Miss Ritta say she wanter see you right now," insisted Larceeny. "When she seed you on de street, you wuz so fur, she couldn't holla at you, an' time she call me outer de gyarden, you wuz done gone. I wuz at de fur een' er de gyarden, pickin' rasbe'ies, an' I had ter drap ever'thing."
"Do you pick raspberries with your mouth?" inquired Mr. Sanders, with a very solemn air.
"Is my mouf dat red?" inquired Larceeny, with an alarmed expression on her face. She seized her gingham apron by the hem, and, using the underside, proceeded to remove the incriminating stains, remarking, "I'm mighty glad you tol' me, kaze ef ol' Miss Polly had seed dat—well, she done preach my funer'l once, an' I don't want ter hear it no mo'."
Mr. Sanders, following Larceeny, proceeded to the Gaither Place, and was ushered into the parlour, where, to his surprise, he found Judge Vardeman, of Rockville, one of the most distinguished lawyers of the State. Mr. Sanders knew the Judge very well, and admired him not only on account of his great ability as a lawyer, but because of the genial simplicity of his character. They greeted each other very cordially, and were beginning to discuss the situation—it was the one topic that never grew stale during that sad time—when Mrs. Claiborne came in; she had evidently been out to attend to some household affairs.
"I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Sanders," she said. "I have sent for you at the suggestion of Judge Vardeman, who is a kinsman of mine by marriage. He is surprised that you and I are not well acquainted; but I tell him that in such sad times as these, it is a wonder that one knows one's next-door neighbours."
Mr. Sanders made some fitting response, and as soon as he could do so without rudeness, closely studied the countenance of the lady. There was a vivacity, a gaiety, an archness in her manner that he found very charming. Her features were not regular, but when she laughed or smiled, her face was beautiful. If she had ever experienced any serious trouble, Mr. Sanders thought, she had been able to bear it bravely, for no marks of it were left on her speaking countenance. "Give me a firm faith and a light heart," says an ancient writer, "and the world may have everything else."
"I have sent for you, Mr. Sanders," said the lady, laughing lightly, "to ask if you will undertake to be my drummer."
"Your drummer!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "Well, I've been told that I have a way of blowin' my own horn, when the weather is fine and the spring sap is runnin', but as for drummin', I reely hain't got the knack on it."
"Oh, I only want you to do a little talking here and there, and give out various hints and intimations—you know what I mean. I am anxious to even up matters with a friend of yours, who, I am afraid, isn't any better than he should be."
While the lady was talking, Mr. Sanders was staring at a couple of crayon portraits on the wall. He rose from his seat, walked across the room, and attentively studied one of the portraits. It depicted a man between twenty-five and thirty-five.
"Well, I'll be jigged!" he exclaimed as he resumed his seat. "Ef that ain't Silas Tomlin I'm a Dutchman!"
"Why, I shouldn't think you would recognise him after all these years," the lady said, smiling brightly. "Don't you think the portrait flatters him?"
"Quite a considerbul," replied Mr. Sanders; "but Silas has got p'ints about his countenance that a coat of tar wouldn't hide. Trim his eyebrows, an' give him a clean, close shave, an' he's e'en about the same as he was then. An' ef I ain't mighty much mistaken, the pictur' by his side was intended to be took for you. The feller that took it forgot to put the right kind of a sparkle in the eye, an' he didn't ketch the laugh that oughter be hov'rin' round the mouth, like a butterfly tryin' to light on a pink rose; but all in all, it's a mighty good likeness."
"Now, don't you think I should thank Mr. Sanders?" said the lady, turning to Judge Vardeman. "It has been many a day since I have had such a compliment. Actually, I believe I am blushing!" and she was.
"It wasn't much of a compliment to the artist," the Judge suggested.
"Well, when it comes to paintin' a purty 'oman," remarked Mr. Sanders, "it's powerful hard for to git in all the p'ints. A feller could paint our picturs in short order, Judge. A couple of kags of pink paint, a whitewash brush, an' two or three strokes, bold an' free, would do the business."
The Judge's eye twinkled merrily, and Mrs. Claiborne laughingly exclaimed, "Why, you'd make quite an artist. You certainly have an eye for colour."
Thereupon Judge Vardeman suggested to Mrs. Claiborne that she begin at the beginning, and place Mr. Sanders in possession of all the facts necessary to the successful carrying out of the plan she had in view. It was a plan, the Judge went on to say, that he did not wholly indorse, bordering, as it did, on frivolity, but as the lady was determined on it, he would not advise against it, as the results bade fair to be harmless.
It must have been quite a story the lady had to tell Mr. Sanders, for the sun was nearly down when he came from the house; and it must have been somewhat amusing, too, for he came down the steps laughing heartily. When he reached the sidewalk, he paused, looked back at the closed door, shook his head, and threw up his hands, exclaiming to himself, "Bless Katy! I'm powerful glad I ain't got no 'oman on my trail. 'Specially one like her. Be jigged ef she don't shake this old town up!"
He heard voices behind him, and turned to see Eugenia Claiborne and Paul Tomlin walking slowly along, engaged in a very engrossing conversation. Mr. Sanders looked at the couple long enough to make sure that he was not mistaken as to their identity, and then he went on his way.
He had intended to go straight home, but, yielding to a sudden whim or impulse, he went to the tavern instead. This old tavern, at a certain hour of the day, was the resort of all the men, old and young, who desired to indulge in idle gossip, or hear the latest news that might be brought by some stray traveller, or commercial agent, or cotton-buyer from Malvern. For years, Mr. Woodruff, the proprietor—he had come from Vermont in the forties, as a school-teacher—complained that the hospitality of the citizens was enough to ruin any public-house that had no gold mine to draw upon. But, after the war, the tide, such as it was, turned in his favour, and by the early part of 1868, he was beginning to profit by what he called "a pretty good line of custom," and there were days in the busy season when he was hard put to it to accommodate his guests in the way he desired.
During the spring and summer months, there was no pleasanter place than the long, low veranda of Mr. Woodruff's tavern, and it was very popular with those who had an idle hour at their disposal. This veranda was much patronised by Mr. Silas Tomlin, who, after the death of his wife, had no home-life worthy of the name. Silas was not socially inclined; he took no part in the gossip and tittle-tattle that flowed up and down the veranda. The most interesting bit of news never caused him to turn his head, and the raciest anecdote failed to bring a smile to his face. Nevertheless, nothing seemed to please him better than to draw a chair some distance away from the group of loungers, yet not out of ear-shot, lean back against one of the supporting pillars, close his eyes and listen to all that was said, or dream his own dreams, such as they might be.
Mr. Sanders was well aware of Silas Tomlin's tavern habits, and this was what induced him to turn his feet in that direction. He expected to find Silas there at this particular hour and he was not disappointed. Silas was sitting aloof from the crowd, his chair leaning against one of the columns, his legs crossed, his eyes closed, and his hands folded in his lap. But for an occasional nervous movement of his thin lips, and the twitching of his thumbs, he might have served as a model for a statue of Repose. As a matter of fact, all his faculties were alert.
The crowd of loungers was somewhat larger than usual, having been augmented during the day by three commercial agents and a couple of cotton-buyers. Lawyer Tidwell was taking advantage of the occasion to expound and explain several very delicate and intricate constitutional problems. Mr. Tidwell was a very able man in some respects, and he was a very good talker, although he wanted to do all the talking himself. He lowered his voice slightly, as he saw Mr. Sanders, but kept on with his exposition of our organic law.
"Hello, Mr. Sanders!" said one of the cotton-buyers, taking advantage of a momentary pause in Mr. Tidwell's monologue; "how are you getting on these days?"
"Well, I was gittin' on right peart tell to-day, but this mornin' I struck a job that's made me weak an' w'ary."
"You're looking mighty well, anyhow. What has been the trouble to-day?"
"Why, I'll tell you," responded Mr. Sanders, with a show of animation. "I've been gwine round all day tryin' to git up subscriptions for to build a flatform for Gus Tidwell. Gus needs a place whar he can stand an' explutterate on the Constitution all day, and not be in nobody's way."
"Well, of course you succeeded," remarked Mr. Tidwell, good-naturedly.
"Middlin' well—middlin' well. A coloured lady flung a dime in the box, an' I put in a quarter. In all, I reckon I've raised a dollar an' a half. But I reely believe I could 'a' raised a hunderd dollars ef I'd 'a' told 'em whar the flatform was to be built."
"Where is that?" some one inquired.
"In the pine-thicket behind the graveyard," responded Mr. Sanders, so earnestly and promptly that the crowd shouted with laughter. Even Mr. Tidwell, who was "case-hardened," as Mrs. Absalom would say, to Mr. Sanders's jokes, joined in with the rest.
"Gus is a purty good lawyer," said Mr. Sanders, lifting his voice a little to make sure that Silas Tomlin would hear every syllable of what he intended to say; "but he'll never be at his best till he finds out that the Constitution, like the Bible, can be translated to suit the idees of any party or any crank. But I allers brag on Gus because I believe in paternizin' home industries. Howsomever, between us boys an' gals, an' not aimin' for it to go any furder, there's a lawyer in town to-day—an' maybe he'll be here to-morrow—who knows more about the law in one minnit than Gus could tell you in a day and a half. An' when it comes to explutterations on p'ints of constitutional law, Gus wouldn't be in it."
"Is that so? What is the gentleman's name?" asked Mr. Tidwell.
"Judge Albert Vardeman," replied Mr. Sanders. "Now, when you come to talk about lawyers, you'll be doin' yourself injustice ef you leave out the name of Albert Vardeman. He ain't got much of a figure—he's shaped somethin' like a gourdful of water—but I tell you he's got a head on him."
"Is the Judge really here?" Mr. Tidwell asked. "I'd like very much to have a talk with him."
"I don't blame you, Gus," remarked Mr. Sanders, "you can git more straight p'ints from Albert Vardeman than you'll find in the books. He's been at Mrs. Claiborne's all day; I reckon she's gittin' him to ten' to some law business for her. They's some kinder kinnery betwixt 'em. His mammy's cat ketched a rat in her gran'mammy's smokehouse, I reckon. We've got more kinfolks in these diggin's, than they has been sence the first generation arter Adam."
At the mention of Mrs. Claiborne's name Silas Tomlin opened his eyes and uncrossed his legs. This movement caused him to lose his balance, and his chair fell from a leaning position with a sharp bang.
"What sort of a dream did you have, Silas?" Mr. Sanders inquired with affected solicitude. "You'd better watch out; Dock Dorrin'ton says that when a man gits bald-headed, it's a sign that his bones is as brittle as glass. He found that out on one of his furrin trips."
"Don't worry about me, Sanders," replied Silas. He tried to smile.
"Well, I don't reckon you could call it worry, Silas, bekaze when I ketch a case of the worries, it allers sends me to bed wi' the jimmyjon. I can be neighbourly wi'out worryin', I hope."
"For a woman with a grown daughter," remarked Mr. Tidwell, speaking his thoughts aloud, as was his habit, "Mrs. Claiborne is well preserved—very well preserved." Mr. Tidwell was a widower, of several years' standing.
"Why, she's not only preserved, she's the preserves an' the preserver," Mr. Sanders declared. "To look in her eye an' watch her thoughts sparklin' like fire, to watch her movements, an' hear her laugh, not only makes a feller young agin, but makes him glad he's a-livin'. An' that gal of her'n—well, she's a thoroughbred. Did you ever notice the way she holds her head? I never see her an' Nan Dorrington together but what I'm sorry I never got married. I'd put up wi' all the tribulation for to have a gal like arry one on 'em."
Mr. Sanders paused a moment, and then turned to Silas Tomlin. "Silas, I think Paul is fixin' for to do you proud. As I come along jest now, him an' Jinny Claiborne was walkin' mighty close together. They must 'a' been swappin' some mighty sweet secrets, bekaze they hardly spoke above a whisper. An' they didn't look like they was in much of a hurry."
While Mr. Sanders was describing the scene he had witnessed, exaggerating the facts to suit his whimsical humour, Silas Tomlin sat bold upright in his chair, his eyes half-shut, and his thin lips working nervously. "Paul knows which side his bread is buttered on," he snapped out.
"Bread!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, pretending to become tremendously excited; "bread! shorely you must mean poun'-cake, Silas. And whoever heard of putting butter on poun'-cake?"
When the loungers began to disperse, some of them going home, and others going in to supper in response to the tavern bell, Mr. Silas Tomlin called to Lawyer Tidwell, and the two walked along together, their homes lying in the same direction.
"Gus," said Silas, somewhat nervously, "I want to put a case to you. It's purely imaginary, and has probably never happened in the history of the world."
"You mean what we lawyers call a hypothetical case," remarked Mr. Tidwell, in a tone that suggested a spacious and a tolerant mind.
"Precisely," replied Mr. Silas Tomlin, with some eagerness. "I was readin' a tale in an old copy ofBlackwood's Magazinethe other day, an' the whole business turned on just such a case. The sum and substance of it was about this: A man marries a woman and they get along together all right for awhile. Then, all of a sudden she takes a mortal dislike to the man, screams like mad when he goes about her, and kicks up generally when his name is mentioned. He, being a man of some spirit, and rather touchy at best, finally leaves her in disgust. Finally her folks send him word that she is dead. On the strength of that information, he marries again, after so long a time. All goes well for eighteen or twenty years, and then suddenly the first wife turns up. Now what, in law, is the man's status? Where does he stand? Is this woman really his wife?"
"Why, certainly," replied Mr. Tidwell. "His second marriage is no marriage at all. The issue of such a marriage is illegitimate."
"That's just what I thought," commented Silas Tomlin. "But in the tale, when the woman comes back, and puts in her claim, the judge flings her case out of court."
"That was in England," Mr. Tidwell suggested.
"Or Scotland—I forget which," Silas Tomlin replied.
"Well, it isn't the law over here," Mr. Tidwell declared confidently. They walked on a little way, when the lawyer suddenly turned to Silas and said: "Mr. Tomlin, will you fetch that magazine in to-morrow? I want to see the ground on which the woman's case was thrown out. It's interesting, even if it is all fiction. Perhaps there was some technicality."
"All right, Gus; I'll fetch it in to-morrow."
When Silas Tomlin reached home, he found his son reading a book. No word of salutation passed between them; Paul simply changed his position in the chair, and Silas grunted. They had no confidences, and they seemed to have nothing in common. As a matter of fact, however, Silas was very fond of this son, proud of his appearance—the lad was as neat as a pin, and fairly well-favoured,—and proud of his love for books. Unhappily, Silas was never able to show his affection and his fair-haired son never knew to his dying day how large a place he occupied in his father's heart. Miserly Silas was with money, but his love for his son was boundless. It destroyed or excluded every other sentiment or emotion that was in conflict with it. His miserliness was for his son's sake, and he never put away a dollar without a feeling of exultation; he rejoiced in the fact that it would enable his son to live more comfortably than his father had cared to live. Silas loved money, not for its own sake, but for the sake of his son.
Mrs. Absalom would have laughed at such a statement. The social structure of the Southern people, and the habits and traditions based thereon, were of such a character that a great majority could not be brought to believe that it was possible for parsimony to exist side by side with any of the finer feelings. All the conditions and circumstances, the ability to command leisure, the very climate itself, promoted hospitality, generosity, open-handedness, and that fine spirit of lavishness that seeks at any cost to give pleasure to others. Popular opinion, therefore, looked with a cold and suspicious eye on all manifestations of selfishness.
But Silas Tomlin's parsimony, his stinginess, had no selfish basis. He was saving not for himself, but for his son, in whom all his affections and all his ambitions were centered. He had reared Paul tenderly without displaying any tenderness, and if the son had speculated at all in regard to the various liberties he had been allowed, or the indulgent methods that had been employed in his bringing up, he would have traced them to the carelessness and indifference of his father, rather than to the ardent affection that burned unseen and unmarked in Silas's bosom.
He had never, by word or act, intentionally wounded the feelings of his son; he had never thrown himself in the path of Paul's wishes. There was a feeling in Shady Dale that Silas was permitting his son to go to the dogs; whereas, as a matter of fact, no detective was ever more alert. Without seeming to do so, he had kept an eye on all Paul's comings and goings. When the lad's desires were reasonable, they were promptly gratified; when they were unreasonable, their gratification was postponed until they were forgotten. Books Paul had in abundance. Half of the large library of Meredith Tomlin had fallen to Silas, and the other half to Pulaski Tomlin, and the lad had free access to all.
Paul was very fond of his Uncle Pulaski and his Aunt Fanny, and he was far more familiar with these two than he was with his father. His association with his uncle and aunt was in the nature of a liberal education. It was Pulaski Tomlin who really formed Paul's character, who gathered together all the elements of good that are native to the mind of a sensitive lad, and moulded them until they were strong enough to outweigh and overwhelm the impulses of evil that are also native to the growing mind. Thus it fell out that Paul was a young man to be admired and loved by all who find modest merit pleasing.
When his father arrived at home on that particular evening, as has been noted, Paul was reading a book. He changed his position, but said nothing. After awhile, however, he felt something was wrong. His father, instead of seating himself at the table, and consulting his note-book, walked up and down the floor.
"What is wrong? Are you ill?" Paul asked after awhile.
"No, son; I am as well in body as ever I was; but I'm greatly troubled. I wish to heaven I could go back to the beginning, and tell you all about it; but I can't—I just can't."
Paul also had his troubles, and he regarded his father gloomily enough. "Why can't you tell me?" he asked, somewhat impatiently. "But I needn't ask you that; you never tell me anything. I heard something to-day that made me ashamed."
"Ashamed, Paul?" gasped his father.
"Yes—ashamed. And if it is true, I am going away from here and never show my face again."
Silas fell, rather than leaned, against the mantel-piece, his face ghastly white. He tried to say, "What did you hear, Paul?" His lips moved, but no sound issued from his throat.
"Two or three persons told me to-day," Paul went on, "that they had heard of your intention to join the radicals, and run for the legislature. I told each and every one of them that it was an infernal lie; but I don't know whether it is a lie or not. If it isn't I'll leave here."
Silas Tomlin's heart had been in his throat, as the saying is, but he gulped it down again and smiled faintly. If this was all Paul had heard, well and good. Compared with some other things, it was a mere matter of moonshine. Paul took up his book again, but he turned the leaves rapidly, and it was plain that he was impatiently waiting for further information.
At last Silas spoke: "All the truth in that report, Paul, is this—It has been suggested to me that it would be better for the whites here if some one who sympathises with their plans, and understands their interests, should pretend to become a Republican, and make the race for the legislature. This is what some of our best men think."
"What do you mean by our best men, father?"
"Why, I don't know that I am at liberty to mention names even to you, Paul," said Silas, who had no notion of being driven into a corner. "And then, on the other hand, the white Republicans are not as fond of the negroes as they pretend to be. And if they can't get some native-born white man to run, who do you reckon they'll have to put up as a candidate? Why, old Jerry, Pulaski's man of all work."
"Well, what of it?" Paul asked with rising indignation. "Jerry is a great deal better than any white man who puts himself on an equality with him."
"Have you met Mr. Hotchkiss?" asked Silas. "He seems to be a very clever man."
"No, I haven't met him and I don't want to meet him." Paul rose from his seat, and stood facing his father. He was a likely-looking young man, tall and slim, but broad-shouldered. He had the delicate pink complexion that belongs to fair-haired persons. "This is a question, father, that can't be discussed between us. You beat about the bush in such a way as to compel me to believe the reports I have heard are true. Well, you can do as you like; I'll not presume to dictate to you. You may disgrace yourself, but you sha'n't disgrace me."
With that, the high-strung young fellow seized his hat, and flung out of the house, carrying his book with him. He shut the door after him with a bang, as he went out, demonstrating that he was full of the heroic indignation that only young blood can kindle.
Silas Tomlin sank into a chair, as he heard the street-door slammed. "Disgrace him! My God! I've already disgraced him, and when he finds it out he'll hate me. Oh, Lord!" If the man's fountain of tears had not been dried up years before, he would have wept scalding ones.
An inner door opened and a negro woman peeped in. Seeing no one but Silas, she cried out indignantly, "Who dat slammin' dat front do'? You'll break eve'y glass in de house, an' half de crock'ry-ware in de dinin'-room, an' den you'll say I done it."
"It was Paul, Rhody; he was angry about something."
The negro woman gave an indignant snort. "I don't blame 'im—I don't blame 'im; not one bit. Ain't I been tellin' you how 'twould be? Ain't I been tellin' you dat you'd run 'im off wid yo' scrimpin' an' pinchin'? But 'tain't dat dat run'd 'im off. It's sump'n wuss'n dat. He ain't never done dat away befo'. Ef dat boy ain't had de patience er Job, he'd 'a' been gone fum here long ago."
Rhody came into the room where she could look Silas in the eyes. He regarded her with curiosity, which appeared to be the only emotion left him. Certainly he had never seen his cook and aforetime slave in such a tantrum. What would she say and do next?
"Home!" she exclaimed in a loud voice. Then she turned around and deliberately inspected the room as if she had never seen it before. "An' so dis is what you call Home—you, wid all yo' money hid away in holes in de groun'! Dis de kinder place you fix up fer dat boy, an' him de onliest one you got! Well!" Rhody's indignation could only be accounted for on the ground that she had overheard the whole conversation between father and son.
"Why, you never said anything about it before," remarked Silas Tomlin.
"No, I didn't, an' I wouldn't say it now, ef dat boy hadn't 'a' foun' out fer hisse'f what kinder daddy he got."
"Blast your black hide! I'll knock your brains out if you talk that way to me!" exclaimed Silas Tomlin, white with anger.
"Well, I bet you nobody don't knock yo' brains out," remarked Rhody undismayed. "An' while I'm 'bout it, I'll tell you dis: Yo' supper's in dar in de pots an' pans; ef you want it you go git it an' put on de table, er set flat on de h'ath an' eat it. Dat chile's gone, an' I'm gwine."
"You dratted fool!" Silas exclaimed, "you know Paul hasn't gone for good. He'll come back when he gets hungry, and be glad to come."
"Is you ever seed him do dis away befo' sence he been born?" Rhody paused and waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming. "No, you ain't! no, you ain't! You don't know no mo' 'bout dat chile dan ef he want yone. But I—me—ol' Rhody—I know 'im. I kin look at 'im sideways an' tell ef he feelin' good er bad er diffunt. What you done done ter dat chile? Tell me dat."
But Silas Tomlin answered never a word. He sat glowering at Rhody in a way that would have subdued and frightened a negro unused to his ways. Rhody started toward the kitchen, but at the door leading to the dining-room she paused and turned around. "Oh, you got a heap ter answer fer—a mighty heap; an' de day will come when you'll bar in mind eve'y word I been tellin' you 'bout dat chile fum de time he could wobble 'roun' an' call me mammy."
With that she went out. Silas heard her moving about in the back part of the house, but after awhile all was silence. He sat for some time communing with himself, and trying in vain to map out some consistent course of action. What a blessing it would be, he thought, if Paul would make good his threat, and go away! It would be like tearing his father's heart-strings out, but better that than that he should remain and be a witness to his own disgrace, and to the bitter humiliation of his father.
Silas had intended to warn his son that he was throwing away his time by going with Eugenia Claiborne—that marriage with her was utterly impossible. But it was a very delicate subject, and, once embarked in it, he would have been unable to give his son any adequate or satisfactory reason for the interdiction. Many wild and whirling thoughts passed through the mind of Silas Tomlin, but at the end, he asked himself why he should cross the creek before he came to it?
The reflection was soothing enough to bring home to his mind the fact that he had had no supper. Unconsciously, and through force of habit, he had been waiting for Rhody to set the small bell to tinkling, as a signal that the meal was ready, but no sound had come to his ears. He rose to investigate. A solitary candle was flaring on the dining-table. He went to the door leading to the kitchen and called Rhody, but he received no answer.
"Blast your impudent hide!" he exclaimed, "what are you doing out there? Why don't you put supper on the table?"
He would have had silence for an answer, but for the barking of a nearby neighbour's dog. He went into the kitchen, and found the fire nearly out, whereupon he made dire threats against his cook, but, in the end, he was compelled to fish his supper from the pans as best he could.
When he had finished he looked at the clock, and was surprised to find that it was only a little after eight. During the course of an hour and a half, he seemed to have lived and suffered a year and a half. The early hour gave him an opportunity to display one of his characteristic traits. It had never been his way to run from trouble. When a small boy, if his nurse told him the booger-man was behind a bush, he always insisted on investigating. The same impulse seized him now. If this Mrs. Claiborne proposed to make any move against him—as he inferred from the hints which the jovial Mr. Sanders had flung at his head—he would beard the lioness in her den, and find out what she meant, and what she wanted.
Silas was prompt to act on the impulse, and as soon as he could make the house secure, he proceeded to the Gaither Place. His knock, after some delay, was answered by Eugenia. The girl involuntarily drew back when she saw who the visitor was. "What is it you wish?" she inquired.
"If your mother is at home, please ask her if she will see Silas Tomlin on a matter of business."
Eugenia left the door open, and in a moment, from one of the rear rooms came the sound of merry, unrestrained laughter, which only ceased when some one uttered a warning "Sh-h!"
Eugenia returned almost immediately, and invited the visitor into the parlour, saying, "It is rather late for business, mamma says, but she will see you."
Silas seated himself on a sofa, and had time to look about him before the lady of the house came in. It was his second visit to Mrs. Claiborne, and he observed many changes had taken place in the disposition of the furniture and the draperies. He noted, too, with a feeling of helpless exasperation, that his own portrait hung on the wall in close proximity to that of Rita Claiborne. He clenched his hands with inward rage. "What does this she-devil mean?" he asked himself, and at that moment, the object of his anger swept into the room. There was something gracious, as well as graceful, in her movements. She had the air of a victor who is willing to be magnanimous.
"What is your business with me?" she asked with lifted eyebrows. There was just the shadow of a smile hovering around her mouth. Silas caught it, and looking into a swinging mirror opposite, he saw how impossible it was for a man with a weazened face and a skull-cap to cope with such a woman as this. However, he had his indignation, his sense of persecution, to fall back upon.
"I want to know what you intend to do," said Silas. There was a note of weakness and helplessness in his voice. "I want to know what to expect. I'm tired of leading a dog's life. I hear you have been colloguing with lawyers."
"Do you remember your first visit here?" inquired Mrs. Claiborne very sweetly. If she was an enemy, she certainly knew how to conceal her feelings. "Do you remember how wildly you talked—how insulting you were?"
"I declare to you on my honour that I never intended to insult you," Silas exclaimed.
"Why, all your insinuations were insulting. You gave me to understand that my coming here was an outrage—as if you had anything to do with my movements. But you insisted that my coming here was an attack on you and your son. When and where and how did I ever do you a wrong?"
"Why didn't you—didn't—" Silas tried hard to formulate his wrongs, but they were either so many or so few that words failed him.
"Did I desert you when you were ill and delirious? Did I put faith in an anonymous letter and believe you to be dead?" The lady spoke with a calmness that seemed to be unnatural and unreal.
For a little while, Silas made no reply, but sat like one dazed, his eyes fixed on the crayon portrait of himself. "Did you hang that thing up there for Paul to see it and ask questions about it?" he asked, after awhile.
"I hung it there because I chose to," she replied. "Judge Vardeman thinks it is a very good likeness of you, but I don't agree with him. Do you think it does you justice?" she asked.
"And then there's Paul," said Silas, ignoring her question. "Do you propose to let him go ahead and fall in love with the girl?"
"Paul is not my son," the lady calmly answered.
"But the girl is your daughter," Silas insisted.
"I shall look after her welfare, never fear," said the lady.
"But suppose they should take a notion to marry; what would you do to stop 'em?"
"Oh, well, that is a question for the future," replied the lady, serenely. "It will be time enough to discuss that matter when the necessity arises."
Her composure, her indifference, caused Silas to writhe and squirm in his chair, and she, seeing the torture she was inflicting, appeared to be very well content.
"I didn't come to argue," said Silas presently. "I came for information; I want to know what you intend to do. I don't ask any favours and I don't want any; I'm getting my deserts, I reckon. What I sowed that I'm reaping."
"Ah!" the lady exclaimed softly, and with an air of satisfaction. "Do you really feel so?" She leaned forward a little, and there was that in her eyes that denoted something else besides satisfaction; compassion shone there. Her mood had not been a serious one up to this point, but she was serious now, and Silas could but observe how beautiful she was. "Do you really feel that I would be justified if I confirmed the suspicions you have expressed?"
"So far as I am concerned, you'd be doing exactly right," said Silas bluntly. "But what about Paul?"
"Well, what about Paul?" Mrs. Claiborne asked.
"Well, for one thing, he's never done you any harm. And there's another thing," said Silas rising from his seat: "I'd be willing to have my body pulled to pieces, inch by inch, and my bones broken, piece by piece, to save that boy one single pang."
He stood towering over the lady. For once he had been taken clean out of himself, and he seemed to be transfigured. Mrs. Claiborne rose also.
"Paul is a very good young man," she said.
"Yes, he is!" exclaimed Silas. "He never had a mean thought, and he has never been guilty of a mean action. But that would make no difference in my feelings. It would be all the same to me if he was a thief and a scoundrel or if he was deformed, or if he was everything that he is not. No matter what he was or might be, I would be willing to live in eternal torment if I could know that he is happy."
His face was not weazened now. It was illuminated with his love for his son, the one passion of his life, and he was no longer a contemptible figure. The lady refixed her eyes upon him, and wondered how he could have changed himself right before her eyes, for certainly, as it seemed to her, this was not the mean and shabby figure she had found in the parlour when she first came in. She sighed as she turned her eyes away.
"Do you remember what I told you on the occasion of your first visit?" she inquired very seriously. "You were both rude and disagreeable, but I said that I'd not trouble you again, so long as you left me alone."
"Well, haven't I left you alone?" asked Silas.
"What do you call this?" There was just the shadow of a smile on her face.
"That's a fact," said Silas after a pause. "But I just couldn't help myself. Honestly I'm sorry I came. I'm no match for you. I must bid you good-night. I hardly know what's come over me. If I've worried you, I'm truly sorry."
"One of these days," she said very kindly, as she accompanied him to the door, "I'll send for you. At the proper time I'll give you some interesting news."
"Well, I hope it will be good news; if so, it will be the first I have heard in many a long day. Good-night."
The lady closed the door, and returned to the parlour and sat down. "Why, I thought he was a cold-blooded, heartless creature," she said to herself. Then, after some reflection she uttered an exclamation and clasped her hands together. Suppose he were to make way with himself! The bare thought was enough to keep the smiles away from the face of this merry-hearted lady for many long minutes. Finally, she caught a glimpse of herself in the swinging mirror. She snapped her fingers at her reflection, saying, "Pooh! I wouldn't give that for your firmness of purpose!"
Now, all this time, while the mother was engaged with Silas, Eugenia, the daughter, was having an experience of her own. When Rhody, Silas Tomlin's cook and housekeeper, discovered that Paul had left the house in a fit of anger, she knew at once that something unusual had occurred, and her indignation against Silas Tomlin rose high. She was familiar with every peculiarity of Paul's character, and she was well aware of the fact that behind his calm and cool bearing, which nothing ever seemed to ruffle, was a heart as sensitive and as tender as that of a woman, and a temper hot, obstinate and unreasonable when aroused.
So, without taking time to serve Silas's supper, she went in search of Paul. She went to the store where he was the chief clerk, but the doors were closed; she went to the tavern, but he was not to be seen; and she walked along the principal streets, where sometimes the young men strolled after tea. There she met a negro woman, who suggested that he might be at the Gaither Place. "Humph!" snorted Rhody, "how come dat ain't cross my mind? But ef he's dar dis night, ef he run ter dat gal when he in trouble, I better be layin' off ter cook some weddin' doin's."
There wasn't a backyard in the town that Rhody didn't know as well as she knew her own, and she stood on no ceremony in entering any of them. She went to the Gaither Place, swung back the gate, shutting it after her with a bang, and stalked into the kitchen as though it belonged to her. At the moment there was no one in sight but Mandy, the house-girl, a bright and good-looking mulatto.
"Why, howdy, Miss Rhody!" she exclaimed, in a voice that sounded like a flute. "What wind blowed you in here?"
"Put down dem dishes an' wipe yo' han's," said Rhody, by way of reply. The girl silently complied, expressing no surprise and betraying no curiosity. "Now, den, go in de house, an' ax ef Paul Tomlin is in dar," commanded Rhody. "Ef he is des tell 'im dat Mammy Rhody want ter see 'im."
"I hope dey ain't nobody dead," suggested Mandy with a musical laugh. "I'm lookin' out for all sorts er trouble, because I've had mighty funny dreams for three nights han'-runnin'. Look like I can see blood. I wake up, I do, cryin' an' feelin' tired out like de witches been ridin' me. Then I drop off to sleep, an' there's the blood, plain as my han'."
She went on in the house and Rhody followed close at her heels. She was determined to see Paul if she could. She was very willing for Silas Tomlin to be drawn through a hackle; she was willing to see murder done if the whites were to be the victims; but Paul—well, according to her view, Paul was one of a thousand. She had given him suck; she had fretted and worried about him for twenty years; and she couldn't break off her old habits all at once. She had listened to and indorsed the incendiary doctrines of the radical emissary who pretended to be representing the government; she had wept and shouted over the strenuous pleadings of the Rev. Jeremiah; but all these things were wholly apart from Paul. And if she had had the remotest idea that they affected his interests or his future, she would have risen in the church and denounced the carpet-bagger and his scalawag associates, and likewise the Rev. Jeremiah.
When Mandy, closely followed by Rhody, went into the house, she heard voices in the parlour, but Eugenia was in the sitting-room reading by the light of a lamp.
"Miss Genia," said the girl, "is Mr. Paul here?"
"Why do you ask?" inquired Eugenia.
"They-all cook wanter speak with him." At this moment, Eugenia saw the somewhat grim face of Rhody peering over the girl's shoulder.
"Paul isn't here," said the young lady, rising with a vague feeling of alarm. "What is the matter?" And then, feeling that if there was any trouble, Rhody would feel freer to speak when they were alone together, Eugenia dismissed Mandy, and followed to see that the girl went out. "Now, whatisthe trouble, Rhody? Mr. Silas Tomlin is in the parlour talking to mother."
Rhody opened her eyes wide at this. "Hein dar? What de name er goodness he doin' here?" Eugenia didn't know, of course, and said so. "Well, he ain't atter no good," Rhody went on; "you kin put dat down in black an' white. Dat man is sho' ter leave a smutty track wharsomever he walk at. You better watch 'im; you better keep yo' eye on 'im. Is he yever loant yo' ma any money?"
"Why, no," replied Eugenia, laughing at the absurdity of the question. "What put that idea in your head?"
"Bekaze dat's his business—loanin' out a little dab er money here an' a little dab dar, an' gittin' back double de dab he loant," said Rhody. "Deyer folks in dis county, which he loant um money, an' now he got all de prop'ty dey yever had; an' deyer folks right here in dis town, which he loant um dat ar Conferick money when it want wuff much mo dan shavin's, an' now dey got ter pay 'im back sho nuff money. I hear 'im sesso. Oh, dat's him! dat's Silas Tomlin up an' down. You kin take a thrip an' squeeze it in yo' han' tell it leave a print, an' hol' it up whar folks kin see it, an' dar you got his pictur'; all it'll need will be a frame. He done druv Paul 'way fum home."
She spoke with some heat, and really went further than she intended, but she was swept away by her indignation. She was certain, knowing Paul as well as she did, that he had left the house in a fit of anger at something his father had said or done and she was equally as certain that he would have to be coaxed back.
"Surely you are mistaken," said Eugenia. "It is too ridiculous. Why, Paul—Mr. Paul is——" She paused and stood there blushing.
"Go on, chile: say it out; don't be shame er me. Nobody can't say nothin' good 'bout dat boy but what I kin put a lots mo' on what dey er tellin'. Silas Tomlin done tol' me out'n his own mouf dat Paul went fum de house vowin' he'd never come back."
Eugenia was so sure that Rhody (after her kind and colour) was exaggerating, that she refused to be disturbed by the statement. "Why did you come here hunting for Paul?" the young lady asked.
"Oh, go away, Miss Genia!" exclaimed Rhody, laughing. "'Tain't no needs er my answerin' dat, kaze you know lots better'n I does."
"Are you very fond of him?" Eugenia inquired.
"Who—me? Why, honey, I raised 'im. Sick er well, I nussed 'im fer long years. I helt 'im in deze arms nights an' nights, when all he had ter do fer ter leave dis vale wuz ter fetch one gasp an' go. Ef his daddy had done all dat, he wouldn't 'a' druv de boy fum home."
Alas! how could Rhody, in her ignorance and blindness, probe the recesses of a soul as reticent as that of Silas Tomlin?
"Oh, don't say he was driven from home!" cried Eugenia, rising and placing a hand on Rhody's arm. "If you talk that way, other people will take it up, and it won't be pleasant for Paul."
"Dat sho is a mighty purty han'," exclaimed Rhody enthusiastically, ignoring the grave advice of the young woman. "I'm gwine ter show somebody de place whar you laid it, an' I bet you he'll wanter cut de cloff out an' put it in his alvum."
Eugenia made a pretence of pushing Rhody out of the room, but she was blushing and smiling. "Well'm, he ain't here, sho, an' here's whar he oughter be; but I'll fin' 'im dis night an' ef he ain't gwine back home, I ain't gwine back—you kin put dat down." With that, she bade the young lady good-night, and went out.
As Rhody passed through the back gate, she chanced to glance toward Pulaski Tomlin's house, and saw a light shining from the library window. "Ah-yi!" she exclaimed, "he's dar, an' dey ain't no better place fer 'im. Dey's mo' home fer 'im right dar den dey yever wus er yever will be whar he live at."
So saying, she turned her steps in the direction of Neighbour Tomlin's. In the kitchen, she asked if Paul was in the house. The cook didn't know, but when the house-girl came out, she said that Mr. Paul was there, and had been for some time. "Deyer holdin' a reg'lar expeunce meetin' in dar," she said. "Miss Fanny sho is a plum sight!"
The house-girl went in again to say that Rhody would like to speak with him, and Rhody, as was her custom, followed at her heels.
"Come in, Rhody," said Miss Fanny. "I know you are there. You always send a message, and then go along with it to see if it is delivered correctly. 'Twould save a great deal of trouble if the rest of us were to adopt your plan."
"I hope you all is well," remarked Rhody, as she made her appearance. "I declar', Miss Fanny, you look good enough to eat."
"Well, I do eat," responded Miss Fanny, teasingly.
"I mean you look good enough ter be etted," said Rhody, correcting herself.
"Now, that is what I call a nice compliment," Miss Fanny observed complacently. "Brother Pulaski, if I am ever 'etted' you won't have to raise a monument to my memory."
"No wonder you look young," laughed Rhody. "Anybody what kin git fun out'n a graveyard is bleeze ter look young."
Paul was lying on the wide lounge that was one of the features of the library. His eyes were closed, and his Aunt Fanny was gently stroking his hair. Pulaski Tomlin leaned back in an easy chair, lazily enjoying a cigar, the delicate flavour of which filled the room. There was something serene and restful in the group, in the furniture, in all the accessories and surroundings. The negro woman turned around and looked at everything in the room, as if trying to discover what produced the effect of perfect repose.
It is the rule that everything beautiful and precious in this world should have mystery attached to it. There is the enduring mystery of art, the mystery that endows plain flesh and blood with genius. A little child draws you by its beauty; there is mystery unfathomable in its eyes. You enter a home, no matter how fine, no matter how humble; it may be built of logs, and its furnishings may be of the poorest; but if it is a home, a real home, you will know it unmistakably the moment you step across the threshold. Some subtle essence, as mysterious as thought itself, will find its way to your mind and enlighten your instinct. You will know, however fine the dwelling, whether the spirit of home dwells there.
Rhody, as she looked around in the vain effort to get a clew to the secret, wondered why she always felt so comfortable in this house. She sighed as she seated herself on the floor at the foot of the lounge on which Paul lay. This was her privilege. If Miss Fanny could sit at his head, Rhody could sit at his feet.
"You wanted to speak to Paul," suggested Miss Fanny.
"Yes'm; he lef' de house in a huff, an' I wanter know ef he gwine back—kaze ef he ain't, I'm gwineter move way fum dar. He ain't take time fer ter git his supper."
"Why, Paul!" exclaimed Miss Fanny.
"I couldn't eat a mouthful to save my life," said Paul.
"Whar Miss Margaret?" Rhody inquired; and she seemed pleased to hear that the young lady was spending the night with Nan Dorrington. "Honey," she said to Paul, "how come yo' pa went ter de Gaither Place ter-night? What business he got dar?"
This was news to Paul, and he could make no reply to Rhody's question. He reflected over the matter a little while. "Was he really there?" he asked finally.
"I hear 'im talkin' in de parlour, an' Miss Genia say it's him."
"What wereyoudoing there?" inquired Miss Fanny, pushing her jaunty grey curls behind her ears.
"A coloured 'oman recommen' me ter go dar ef I wan' ter fin' dat chile."
"Why, Paul! And is the wind really blowing in that quarter?" cried Miss Fanny, leaning over and kissing him on the forehead.
"Now, Mammy Rhody, why did you do that?" Paul asked with considerable irritation. "What will Miss Eugenia and her mother think?" He sat bolt upright on the sofa.
"Well, her ma ain't see me, an' Miss Genia look like she wuz sorry I couldn't fin' you dar."
Miss Fanny laughed, but Rhody was perfectly serious. "Miss Fanny," she said, turning to the lady, "how come dat chile lef' home?"
"Shall I tell her, Paul? I may as well." Whereupon she told the negro woman the cause of Paul's anger, and ended by saying that she didn't blame him for showing the spirit of a Southern gentleman.
"Well, he'll never j'ine de 'Publican Party in dis county," Rhody declared emphatically.
"He will if he has made up his mind to do so. You don't know Silas," said Miss Fanny.
"Who—me? Me not know dat man? Huh! I know 'im better'n he know hisse'f; an' I know some yuther folks, too. I tell you right now, he'll never j'ine; an' ef you don't believe me, you wait an' see. Time I git thoo wid his kaycter, de 'Publicans won't tetch 'im wid a ten-foot pole."
"I hope you are right," said Pulaski Tomlin, speaking for the first time. "There's enough trouble in the land without having a scalawag in the Tomlin family."
"Well, you nee'nter worry 'bout dat, kaze I'll sho put a stop ter dem kinder doin's. Honey," Rhody went on, addressing Paul, "you come on home when you git sleepy; I'm gwineter set up fer you, an' ef you don't come, yo' pa'll hatter cook his own vittles ter-morrer mornin'."
"Good-night, Rhody, and pleasant dreams," said Miss Fanny, as the negro woman started out.
"I dunner how anybody kin have pleasin' drams ef dey sleep in de same lot wid Marse Silas," replied Rhody. "Good-night all."
Now, the cook at the Tomlin Place was the wife of the Rev. Jeremiah. She was a tall, thin woman, some years older than her husband, and she ruled him with a rod of iron. The new conditions, combined with the insidious flattery of the white radicals, had made her vicious against the whites. Rhody knew this, and from the "big house," she went into the kitchen, where Mrs. Jeremiah was cleaning up for the night. Her name was Patsy.
"You gittin' mighty thick wid de white folks, Sis' Rhody," said Patsy, pausing in her work, as the other entered the door.
For answer, Rhody fell into a chair, held both hands high above her head, and then let them drop in her lap. The gesture was effective for a dozen interpretations. "Well!" she exclaimed, and then paused, Patsy watching her narrowly the while. "I dunner how 'tis wid you, Sis' Patsy, but wid me, it's live an' l'arn—live an' l'arn. An' I'm a-larnin', mon, spite er de fack dat de white folks think niggers ain't got no sense."
"Dey does! Dey does!" exclaimed Patsy. "Dey got de idee dat we all ain't got no mo' sense dan a passel er fryin'-size chickens. But dey'll fin' out better, an' den—Ah-h-h!" This last exclamation was a hoarse gutteral cry of triumph.
"You sho is talkin' now!" cried Rhody, with an admiring smile. "I knows it ter-night, ef I never is know'd it befo'."
Patsy knew that some disclosure was coming, and she invited it by putting Rhody on the defensive. "It's de trufe," she declared. "Dat what make me feel so quare, Sis' Rhody, when I see you so ready fer ter collogue wid de white folks. I wuz talkin' wid Jerry 'bout it no longer'n las' night. Yes'm, I wuz. I say, 'Jerry, what de matter wid Sis' Rhody?' He say, 'Which away, Pidgin?'—desso; he allers call me Pidgin," explained Patsy, with a smile of pride. "I say, 'By de way she colloguin' wid de white folks.'"
"What Br'er Jerry say ter dat?" inquired Rhody.
"He des shuck his head an' groan," was the reply.
Rhody leaned forward with a frown that was almost tragic in its heaviness, and spoke in a deep, unnatural tone that added immensely to the emphasis of her words. "'Oman, lemme tell you: I done it, an' I'm glad I done it; an' you'll be glad I done it; an' he'll be glad I done it." Patsy was drying the dish-pan with a towel, but suspended operations the better to hear what Rhody had to say. "Dey done got it fixt up fer ol' Silas ter j'ine in wid de 'Publican Party. He gwineter j'ine so he kin fin' out all der doin's, an' all der comin's an' der gwines, so he kin tell de yuthers."
"Huh! Oh, yes—yes, yes, yes! Oh, yes! We er fools; we ain't got no sense!" cackled Patsy viciously.
"He des gwineter make out he's a 'Publican," Rhody went on; "dey got it all planned. He gwineter j'ine de Nunion League, an' git all de names. Dey talk 'bout it, Sis' Patsy, right befo' my face an' eyes. Dey mus' take me fer a start-natchel fool."
"Dey does—dey does!" cried Patsy; "dey takes us all fer fools. But won't dey be a wakin' up when de time come?"
Then and there was given the death-blow to Silas Tomlin's ambition to become a Republican politician. The Rev. Jeremiah was apprised of the plan, which so far as Rhody was concerned, was a pure invention. Word went round, and when Silas put in his application to become a member of the Union League, he was informed that orders had come from Atlanta that no more members were to be enrolled.
When Rhody went out into the street, after her talk with Patsy, a passer-by would have said that her actions were very queer. She leaned against the fence and went into convulsions of silent laughter. "Oh, I wish I wuz some'rs whar I could holler," she said aloud between gasps. "He calls her 'Pidgin!' Pidgin! Ef she's a pidgin, I'd like ter know what gone wid de cranes!"
She recurred to this name some weeks afterward, when the Rev. Jeremiah informed her confidentially that his wife had discovered Silas Tomlin's plan to unearth the secrets of the Union League. Rhody's comment somewhat surprised the Rev. Jeremiah. "I allers thought," she said with a laugh, "dat Pidgin had sump'n else in her craw 'sides corn."
Rhody waited in the kitchen that night until Paul returned, and then she went to bed. Silas and his son were up earlier than usual the next morning, but they found breakfast ready and waiting. The attitude of father and son toward each other was constrained and reserved. Silas felt that he must certainly say something to Paul about Eugenia Claiborne. He hardly knew how to begin, but at last he plunged into the subject with the same shivering sense of fear displayed by a small boy who is about to jump into a pond of cold water—dreading it, and yet determined to take a header.
"I hear, Paul," he began, "that you are very attentive to Eugenia Claiborne."
"I call on her occasionally," said Paul. "She is a very agreeable young lady." He spoke coolly, but the blood mounted to his face.
"So I hear—so I hear," remarked Silas in a business-like way. "Still, I hope you won't carry matters too far."
"What do you mean?" Paul inquired.
"I wish I could go into particulars; I wish I could tell you exactly what I mean, but I can't," said Silas. "All I can say is that it would be impossible for you to marry the young woman. My Lord!" he exclaimed, as he saw Paul close his jaws together. "Ain't there no other woman in the world?"
"Do you know anything against the young lady's character?" the son asked.
"Nothing, absolutely nothing," was the response.
"Well," said Paul, "I hadn't considered the question of marriage at all, but since you've brought the subject up, we may as well discuss it. You say it will be impossible for me to marry this young lady, and you refuse to tell me why. Don't you think I am old enough to be trusted?"
"Why, certainly, Paul—of course; but there are some things—" Silas paused, and caught his breath, and then went on. "Honestly, Paul, if I could tell you, I would; I'd be glad to tell you; but this is a matter in which you will have to depend on my judgment. Can't you trust me?"
"Just as far as you can trust me, but no farther," was the reply. "I'm not a child. In a few months I'll be of age. But if I were only ten years old, and knew the young lady as well as I know her now, you couldn't turn me against her by insinuations." He rose, shook himself, walked the length of the room and back again, and stood close to his father. "You've already settled the question of marriage. I asked you last night about the report that you intended to act with the radicals, and you refused to give me a direct answer. That means that the report is true. Do you suppose that Eugenia Claiborne, or any other decent woman would marry the son of a scalawag?" he asked with a voice full of passion. "Why, she'd spit in his face, and I wouldn't blame her."
The young man went out, leaving Silas sitting at the table. "Lord! I hate to hurt him, but he'd better be dead than to marry that girl."
Rhody, who was standing in the entryway leading from the dining-room to the kitchen, and who had overheard every word that passed between father and son, entered the room at this moment, exclaiming:
"Well, you des ez well call 'im dead den, kaze marry her he will, an' I don't blame 'im; an' mo'n dat I'll he'p 'im all I can."
"You don't know what you are talking about," said Silas, wiping his lips, which were as dry as a bone.
"Maybe I does, an' maybe I don't," replied Rhody. "But what I does know, I knows des ez good ez anybody. You say dat boy sha'n't marry de gal; but how come you courtin' de mammy?"
"Doing what?" cried Silas, pushing his chair back from the table.
"Courtin' de mammy," answered Rhody, in a loud voice. "You wuz dar las' night, an' fer all I know you wuz dar de night befo', an' de night 'fo' dat. You may fool some folks, but you can't fool me."
"Courting! Why you blasted idiot! I went to see her on business."
Rhody laughed so heartily that few would have detected the mockery in it. "Business! Yasser; it's business, an' mighty funny business. Well, ef you kin git her, you take her. Ef she don't lead you a dance, I ain't name Rhody."
"I believe you've lost what little sense you used to have," said Silas with angry contempt.
"I notice dat nobody roun' here ain't foun' it," remarked Rhody, retiring to the kitchen with a waiter full of dishes.
Matters have changed greatly since those days, and all for the better. The people of the whole country understand one another, and there is no longer any sectional prejudice for the politicians to feed and grow fat upon. But in the days of reconstruction everything was at white heat, and every episode and every development appeared to be calculated to add to the excitement. In all this, Shady Dale had as large a share as any other community. The whites had witnessed many political outrages that seemed to have for their object the renewal of armed resistance. And it is impossible, even at this late day, for any impartial person to read the debates in the Federal Congress during the years of 1867-68 without realising the awful fact that the prime movers in the reconstruction scheme (if not the men who acted as their instruments and tools) were intent on stirring up a new revolution in the hope that the negroes might be prevailed upon to sack cities and towns, and destroy the white population. This is the only reasonable inference; no other conceivable conclusion can explain the wild and whirling words that were uttered in these debates: unless, indeed, some charitable investigator shall establish the fact that the radical leaders were suffering from a sort of contagious dementia.
It is all over and gone, but it is necessary to recall the facts in order to explain the passionate and blind resistance of the whites of the South and their hatred of everything that bore the name or earmarks of Republicanism. Shady Dale, in common with other communities, had witnessed the assembling of a convention to frame a new constitution for the State. This body was well named the mongrel convention. It was made up of political adventurers from Maine, Vermont, and other Northern States, and boasted of a majority composed of ignorant negroes and criminals. One of the most prominent members had served a term in a Northern penitentiary. The real leaders, the men in whose wisdom and conservatism the whites had confidence, were disqualified from holding office by the terms of the reconstruction acts, and the convention emphasised and adopted the policy of the radical leaders in Washington—a policy that was deliberately conceived for the purpose of placing the governments of the Southern States in the hands of ignorant negroes controlled by men who had no interest whatever in the welfare of the people.
But this was not all, nor half. When the military commandant who had charge of affairs in Georgia, found that the State government established under the terms of Mr. Lincoln's plan of reconstruction, had no idea of paying the expenses of the mongrel convention out of the State's funds, he issued an order removing the Governor and Treasurer, and "detailed for duty as Governor of Georgia," one of the members of his staff.
The mongrel convention, which would have been run out of any Northern State in twenty-four hours, had provided for an election to be held in April, 1868, for the ratification or rejection of the new constitution that had been framed, and for the election of Governor and members of the General Assembly. Beginning on the 20th, the election was to continue for three days, a provision that was intended to enable the negroes to vote at as many precincts as they could conveniently reach in eighty-three hours. No safeguard whatever was thrown around the ballot-box, and it was the remembrance of this initial and overwhelming combination of fraud and corruption that induced the whites, at a later day, to stuff the ballot-boxes and suppress the votes of the ignorant.
These things, with the hundreds of irritating incidents and episodes belonging to the unprecedented conditions, gradually worked up the feelings of the whites to a very high pitch of exasperation. The worst fears of the most timid bade fair to be realised, for the negroes, certain of their political supremacy, sure of the sympathy and support of Congress and the War Department, and filled with the conceit produced by the flattery and cajolery of the carpet-bag sycophants, were beginning to assume an attitude which would have been threatening and offensive if their skins had been white as snow.
Gabriel was now old enough to appreciate the situation as it existed, though he never could bring himself to believe that there were elements of danger in it. He knew the negroes too well; he was too familiar with their habits of thought, and with their various methods of accomplishing a desired end. But he was familiar with the apprehensions of the community, and made no effort to put forward his own views, except in occasional conversations with Meriwether Clopton. After a time, however, it became clear, even to Gabriel, that something must be done to convince the misguided negroes that the whites were not asleep.
He conformed himself to all the new conditions with the ready versatility of youth. He studied hard both night and day, but he spent the greater part of his time in the open air. It was perhaps fortunate for him at this time that there was a lack of formality in his methods of acquiring knowledge. He had no tutor, but his line of study was mapped out for him by Meriwether Clopton, who was astonished at the growing appetite of the lad for knowledge—an appetite that seemed to be insatiable.
What he most desired to know, however, he made no inquiries about. He ached, as Mrs. Absalom would have said, to know why he had suddenly come to be afraid of Nan Dorrington. He had been somewhat shy of her before, but now, in these latter days, he was absolutely afraid of her. He liked her as well as ever, but somehow he became panic-stricken whenever he found himself in her company, which was not often.
It was impossible that his desire to avoid her should fail to be observed by Nan, and she found a reason for it in the belief that Gabriel had discovered in some way that she was in the closet with Tasma Tid the night the Union League had been organised. Nan would never have known what a crime—this was the name she gave the escapade—what a crime she had committed but for the shock it gave her step-mother. This lady had been trained and educated in a convent, where every rule of propriety was emphasised and magnified, and most rigidly insisted upon.
One day, when Nan was returning home from the village, she saw Gabriel coming directly toward her. She studied the ground at her feet for a considerable distance, and when she looked up again Gabriel was gone; he had disappeared. This episode, insignificant though it was, was the cause of considerable worry to Nan. She gave Mrs. Dorrington the particulars, and then asked her what it all meant.
"Why should it mean anything?" that lady asked with a laugh.
"Oh, but it must mean something, Johnny. Gabriel has avoided me before, and I have avoided him, but we have each had some sort of an excuse for it. But this time it is too plain."
"What silly children!" exclaimed Mrs. Dorrington, with her cute French accent.
Nan went to a window and looked out, drumming on a pane. Outside everything seemed to be in disorder. The flowers were weeds, and the trees were not beautiful any more. Even the few birds in sight were all dressed in drab. What a small thing can change the world for us!
"I know why he hid himself," Nan declared from the window. "He has found out that I was in the closet with Tasma Tid." How sad it was to be compelled to realise the awful responsibilities that rest as a burden upon Girls who are Grown!
"Well, you were there," replied Mrs. Dorrington, "and since that is so, why not make a joke of it? Gabriel has no squeamishness about such things."
"Then why should he act as he does?" Nan was about to break down.
"Well, he has his own reasons, perhaps, but they are not what you think. Oh, far from it. Gabriel knows as well as I do that it would be impossible for you to do anythingverywrong."
"Oh, but it isn't impossible," Nan insisted. "I feel wicked, and I know I am wicked. If Gabriel Tolliver ever dares to find out that I was in that closet, I'll tell him what I think of him, and then I'll—" Her threat was never completed. Mrs. Dorrington rose from her chair just in time to place her hand over Nan's mouth.
"If you were to tell Gabriel what you really think of him," said the lady, "he would have great astonishment."
"Oh, no, he wouldn't, Johnny. You don't know how conceited Gabriel is. I'm just ready to hate him."
"Well, it may be good for your health to dislike him a little occasionally," remarked Mrs. Dorrington, with a smile.
"Now, whatdoyou mean by that, Johnny?" cried Nan. But the only reply she received was an eloquent shrug of the shoulders.
Gabriel was as much mystified by his own dread of meeting Nan, as he was by her coolness toward him. He could not recall any incident which she had resented; but still she was angry with him. Well, if it was so, so be it; and though he thought it was cruel in his old comrade to harbour hard thoughts against him, he never sought for an explanation. He had his own world to fall back upon—a world of books, the woods and the fields. And he was far from unhappiness; for no human being who loves Nature well enough to understand and interpret its meaning and its myriad messages to his own satisfaction, can be unhappy for any length of time. Whatever his losses or his disappointments, he can make them all good by going into the woods and fields and taking Nature, the great comforter, by the hand.