Just fifteen months after the date when uncle Wellington had left North
Carolina, a weather-beaten figure entered the town of Patesville after
nightfall, following the railroad track from the north. Few would have
recognized in the hungry-looking old brown tramp, clad in dusty rags and
limping along with bare feet, the trim-looking middle-aged mulatto who
so few months before had taken the train from Patesville for the distant
North; so, if he had but known it, there was no necessity for him to
avoid the main streets and sneak around by unfrequented paths to reach
the old place on the other side of the town. He encountered nobody that
he knew, and soon the familiar shape of the little cabin rose before
him. It stood distinctly outlined against the sky, and the light
streaming from the half-opened shutters showed it to be occupied. As he
drew nearer, every familiar detail of the place appealed to his memory
and to his affections, and his heart went out to the old home and the
old wife. As he came nearer still, the odor of fried chicken floated out
upon the air and set his mouth to watering, and awakened unspeakable
longings in his half-starved stomach.
At this moment, however, a fearful thought struck him; suppose the old
woman had taken legal advice and married again during his absence? Turn
about would have been only fair play. He opened the gate softly, and
with his heart in his mouth approached the window on tiptoe and looked
in.
A cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, in front of which sat the
familiar form of aunt Milly--and another, at the sight of whom uncle
Wellington's heart sank within him. He knew the other person very well;
he had sat there more than once before uncle Wellington went away. It
was the minister of the church to which his wife belonged. The
preacher's former visits, however, had signified nothing more than
pastoral courtesy, or appreciation of good eating. His presence now was
of serious portent; for Wellington recalled, with acute alarm, that the
elder's wife had died only a few weeks before his own departure for the
North. What was the occasion of his presence this evening? Was it merely
a pastoral call? or was he courting? or had aunt Milly taken legal
advice and married the elder?
Wellington remembered a crack in the wall, at the back of the house,
through which he could see and hear, and quietly stationed himself
there.
"Dat chicken smells mighty good, Sis' Milly," the elder was saying; "I
can't fer de life er me see why dat low-down husban' er yo'n could ever
run away f'm a cook like you. It 's one er de beatenis' things I ever
heared. How he could lib wid you an' not 'preciate you _I_ can't
understan', no indeed I can't."
Aunt Milly sighed. "De trouble wid Wellin'ton wuz," she replied, "dat
he did n' know when he wuz well off. He wuz alluz wishin' fer change, er
studyin' 'bout somethin' new."
"Ez fer me," responded the elder earnestly, "I likes things what has
be'n prove' an' tried an' has stood de tes', an' I can't 'magine how
anybody could spec' ter fin' a better housekeeper er cook dan you is,
Sis' Milly. I 'm a gittin' mighty lonesome sence my wife died. De Good
Book say it is not good fer man ter lib alone, en it 'pears ter me dat
you an' me mought git erlong tergether monst'us well."
Wellington's heart stood still, while he listened with strained
attention. Aunt Milly sighed.
"I ain't denyin', elder, but what I 've be'n kinder lonesome myse'f fer
quite a w'ile, an' I doan doubt dat w'at de Good Book say 'plies ter
women as well as ter men."
"You kin be sho' it do," averred the elder, with professional
authoritativeness; "yas 'm, you kin be cert'n sho'."
"But, of co'se," aunt Milly went on, "havin' los' my ole man de way I
did, it has tuk me some time fer ter git my feelin's straighten' out
like dey oughter be."
"I kin 'magine yo' feelin's, Sis' Milly," chimed in the elder
sympathetically, "w'en you come home dat night an' foun' yo' chist broke
open, an' yo' money gone dat you had wukked an' slaved full f'm mawnin'
'tel night, year in an' year out, an' w'en you foun' dat no-'count
nigger gone wid his clo's an' you lef' all alone in de worl' ter scuffle
'long by yo'self."
"Yas, elder," responded aunt Milly, "I wa'n't used right. An' den w'en I
heared 'bout his goin' ter de lawyer ter fin' out 'bout a defoce, an'
w'en I heared w'at de lawyer said 'bout my not bein' his wife 'less he
wanted me, it made me so mad, I made up my min' dat ef he ever put his
foot on my do'sill ag'in, I 'd shet de do' in his face an' tell 'im ter
go back whar he come f'm."
To Wellington, on the outside, the cabin had never seemed so
comfortable, aunt Milly never so desirable, chicken never so appetizing,
as at this moment when they seemed slipping away from his grasp forever.
"Yo' feelin's does you credit, Sis' Milly," said the elder, taking her
hand, which for a moment she did not withdraw. "An' de way fer you ter
close yo' do' tightes' ag'inst 'im is ter take me in his place. He ain'
got no claim on you no mo'. He tuk his ch'ice 'cordin' ter w'at de
lawyer tol' 'im, an' 'termine' dat he wa'n't yo' husban'. Ef he wa'n't
yo' husban', he had no right ter take yo' money, an' ef he comes back
here ag'in you kin hab 'im tuck up an' sent ter de penitenchy fer
stealin' it."
Uncle Wellington's knees, already weak from fasting, trembled violently
beneath him. The worst that he had feared was now likely to happen. His
only hope of safety lay in flight, and yet the scene within so
fascinated him that he could not move a step.
"It 'u'd serve him right," exclaimed aunt Milly indignantly, "ef he wuz
sent ter de penitenchy fer life! Dey ain't nuthin' too mean ter be done
ter 'im. What did I ever do dat he should use me like he did?"
The recital of her wrongs had wrought upon aunt Milly's feelings so that
her voice broke, and she wiped her eyes with her apron.
The elder looked serenely confident, and moved his chair nearer hers in
order the better to play the role of comforter. Wellington, on the
outside, felt so mean that the darkness of the night was scarcely
sufficient to hide him; it would be no more than right if the earth were
to open and swallow him up.
"An' yet aftuh all, elder," said Milly with a sob, "though I knows you
is a better man, an' would treat me right, I wuz so use' ter dat ole
nigger, an' libbed wid 'im so long, dat ef he 'd open dat do' dis minute
an' walk in, I 'm feared I 'd be foolish ernuff an' weak ernuff to
forgive 'im an' take 'im back ag'in."
With a bound, uncle Wellington was away from the crack in the wall. As
he ran round the house he passed the wood-pile and snatched up an armful
of pieces. A moment later he threw open the door.
"Ole 'oman," he exclaimed, "here 's dat wood you tol' me ter fetch in!
Why, elder," he said to the preacher, who had started from his seat with
surprise, "w'at's yo' hurry? Won't you stay an' hab some supper wid us?"