As soon as Williams was hidden from the view of the old judge he began
to gesture and talk to himself. An elation had evidently penetrated to
his vitals, and caused him to dilate as if he had been filled with
gas. He snapped his fingers in the air, and whistled fragments of
triumphal music. At times, in his progress towards his shanty, he
indulged in a shuffling movement that was really a dance. It was to be
learned from the intermediate monologue that he had emerged from his
trials laurelled and proud. He was the unconquerable Alexander
Williams. Nothing could exceed the bold self-reliance of his manner.
His kingly stride, his heroic song, the derisive flourish of his
hands--all betokened a man who had successfully defied the world.
On his way he saw Zeke Paterson coming to town. They hailed each other
at a distance of fifty yards.
"How do, Broth' Paterson?"
"How do, Broth' Williams?"
They were both deacons.
"Is you' folks well, Broth' Paterson?"
"Middlin', middlin'. How's you' folks, Broth' Williams?"
Neither of them had slowed his pace in the smallest degree. They had
simply begun this talk when a considerable space separated them,
continued it as they passed, and added polite questions as they
drifted steadily apart. Williams's mind seemed to be a balloon. He had
been so inflated that he had not noticed that Paterson had definitely
shied into the dry ditch as they came to the point of ordinary
contact.
Afterwards, as he went a lonely way, he burst out again in song and
pantomimic celebration of his estate. His feet moved in prancing
steps.
When he came in sight of his cabin, the fields were bathed in a blue
dusk, and the light in the window was pale. Cavorting and
gesticulating, he gazed joyfully for some moments upon this light.
Then suddenly another idea seemed to attack his mind, and he stopped,
with an air of being suddenly dampened. In the end he approached his
home as if it were the fortress of an enemy.
Some dogs disputed his advance for a loud moment, and then discovering
their lord, slunk away embarrassed. His reproaches were addressed to
them in muffled tones.
Arriving at the door, he pushed it open with the timidity of a new
thief. He thrust his head cautiously sideways, and his eyes met the
eyes of his wife, who sat by the table, the lamp-light defining a half
of her face. '"Sh!" he said, uselessly. His glance travelled swiftly
to the inner door which shielded the one bed-chamber. The
pickaninnies, strewn upon the floor of the living-room, were softly
snoring. After a hearty meal they had promptly dispersed themselves
about the place and gone to sleep. "'Sh!" said Williams again to his
motionless and silent wife. He had allowed only his head to appear.
His wife, with one hand upon the edge of the table and the other at
her knee, was regarding him with wide eyes and parted lips as if he
were a spectre. She looked to be one who was living in terror, and
even the familiar face at the door had thrilled her because it had
come suddenly.
Williams broke the tense silence. "Is he all right?" he whispered,
waving his eyes towards the inner door. Following his glance
timorously, his wife nodded, and in a low tone answered:
"I raikon he's done gone t' sleep."
Williams then slunk noiselessly across his threshold.
He lifted a chair, and with infinite care placed it so that it faced
the dreaded inner door. His wife moved slightly, so as to also
squarely face it. A silence came upon them in which they seemed to be
waiting for a calamity, pealing and deadly.
Williams finally coughed behind his hand. His wife started, and looked
upon him in alarm. "Pears like he done gwine keep quiet ternight," he
breathed. They continually pointed their speech and their looks at the
inner door, paying it the homage due to a corpse or a phantom. Another
long stillness followed this sentence. Their eyes shone white and
wide. A wagon rattled down the distant road. From their chairs they
looked at the window, and the effect of the light in the cabin was a
presentation of an intensely black and solemn night. The old woman
adopted the attitude used always in church at funerals. At times she
seemed to be upon the point of breaking out in prayer.
"He mighty quiet ter-night," whispered Williams. "Was he good
ter-day?" For answer his wife raised her eyes to the ceiling in the
supplication of Job. Williams moved restlessly. Finally he tiptoed to
the door. He knelt slowly and without a sound, and placed his ear near
the key-hole. Hearing a noise behind him, he turned quickly. His wife
was staring at him aghast. She stood in front of the stove, and her
arms were spread out in the natural movement to protect all her
sleeping ducklings.
But Williams arose without having touched the door. "I raikon he
er-sleep," he said, fingering his wool. He debated with himself for
some time. During this interval his wife remained, a great fat statue
of a mother shielding her children.
It was plain that his mind was swept suddenly by a wave of temerity.
With a sounding step he moved towards the door. His fingers were
almost upon the knob when he swiftly ducked and dodged away, clapping
his hands to the back of his head. It was as if the portal had
threatened him. There was a little tumult near the stove, where
Mrs. Williams's desperate retreat had involved her feet with the
prostrate children.
After the panic Williams bore traces of a feeling of shame. He
returned to the charge. He firmly grasped the knob with his left hand,
and with his other hand turned the key in the lock. He pushed the
door, and as it swung portentously open he sprang nimbly to one side
like the fearful slave liberating the lion. Near the stove a group had
formed, the terror stricken mother, with her arms stretched, and the
aroused children clinging frenziedly to her skirts.
The light streamed after the swinging door, and disclosed a room six
feet one way and six feet the other way. It was small enough to enable
the radiance to lay it plain. Williams peered warily around the corner
made by the door-post.
Suddenly he advanced, retired, and advanced again with a howl. His
palsied family had expected him to spring backward, and at his howl
they heaped themselves wondrously. But Williams simply stood in the
little room emitting his howls before an open window. "He's gone! He's
gone! He's gone!" His eye and his hand had speedily proved the fact.
He had even thrown open a little cupboard.
Presently he came flying out. He grabbed his hat, and hurled the outer
door back upon its hinges. Then he tumbled headlong into the night. He
was yelling: "Docteh Trescott! Docteh Trescott!" He ran wildly through
the fields, and galloped in the direction of town. He continued to
call to Trescott, as if the latter was within easy hearing. It was as
if Trescott was poised in the contemplative sky over the running
negro, and could heed this reaching voice--"Docteh Trescott!"
In the cabin, Mrs. Williams, supported by relays from the battalion of
children, stood quaking watch until the truth of daylight came as a
reinforcement and made the arrogant, strutting, swashbuckler
children, and a mother who proclaimed her illimitable courage.
[Illustration: "The Door Swung Portentously Open"]