AUNT TIMMIE HEARS A SECRET
Uncle Zack was sitting, shortly after noon a week later, on the door
step of Bradford's cottage. Mesmie was sleeping by the aid of a mild
narcotic, and Aunt Timmie, having darkened the windows, had now come
quietly out to converse with him. Her seven days of vigilance had been
trying to a degree, and, although while in the sick room she was the
very soul of tenderness, this opportunity for relaxation came as a
grateful relief. Therefore, Zack had been passing through several
uncomfortable minutes, during the course of which he heard a great deal
about "wu'thless niggers what sponges off dey twin wife," and other
caustic observations.
His position was becoming altogether unbearable, yet he knew that if he
attempted flight she would bring him back, and if he openly rebelled she
would spank him. Only on the Colonel's last birthday she had turned him
over her knee in good earnest, because he imbibed too many heel-taps to
wait upon the table. So, resorting to diplomacy, he assumed a wise air
and hinted that he might not be so untrustworthy as she had been misled
to believe--that, indeed, he was the possessor of a startling piece of
news.
This mollified Aunt Timmie. If she could get nothing else out of her
gamble on Zack's earthly existence, she might at least know his secrets.
As a matter of fact, she would be most righteously hurt if every family
secret did not with proper humility walk up and lay its head in her lap.
So she began, using a bait which long experience had proven fruitful
when angling in Zack's vicinity.
"You don' know nuthin'," she tilted her chin with a grand air of scorn.
"You never did know nuthin', an' it hu'ts me mos' persumptuously to say
dat you ain' never gwine know nuthin'!"
"Don' make no diff'ence ef I knows nuthin', or not;--I knows sumfin,
jest de same!" he retorted.
"Don' strain yohse'f dat a-way, li'l man," she sneered. "You ain' got
sense 'nuff to know you ain' got no sense--an' dat's de wu'st fix a body
kin be in!"
"Who says so?" Zack was driven to a question.
"Eve'ybody says so! 'Tain' no secret 'tween heah an' town!"
"You don' 'tatch 'nuff 'portance to me," he glared at her, quivering
with indignation, "Since you lef heah de Cunnel don' do nuthin' 'thout
fu'st axin' me!"
She laughed, guardedly on Mesmie's account, but it was a taunting,
disdainful laugh that cut him to the quick. "Listen to dat!" she
sneered. "An' Marse John done said he wouldn' trust you in jail!"
"Den how-cum he taken me wid 'im to find dat man Marse Dale done shoot?"
the outraged old man, at last taking the bait, triumphantly dashed off
with it.
Aunt Timmie straightened in her chair and her eyes rolled at him in
terror.
"You'se lyin'," she said huskily.
The heat of vindicated vanity was in Zack's blood, and nothing would
have kept him from rushing into details; dwelling upon each, and making
them swell in all directions as he watched her ponderous frame heave
with excitement. Finally she had the whole story, and enough
exaggeration to dress up the entire calendar of crime. For several
minutes she sat looking at her folded hands.
"I'se 'most sorry you tol' me dat," she said in a weak, pathetic voice.
"But," squaring herself around at him with the former, towering
strength, "don' you tell no one else! Heah me? Come on, now, an' hitch
up mah buggy, whilst I call Miss Liz to look arter dis li'l gal. I'se
gwine home fer awhile!"
In spite of the physical vigor which accompanied this, it was a very
much saddened old woman who drove slowly along the pike, squinting her
eyes to keep out its glare. Her lips moved as she talked over to herself
the events made known by Zack, or the excuses she was building up for
Dale. She was passing Hewlet's house now, when a woman's voice, high,
whiney and querulous, floated out to her.
"Let the gal alone, Tom! Yer've done near bruised her arm off now, as
'tis!"
Aunt Timmie reined in.
"An' you kin keep yoh durned mouth shet," a man yelled, evidently in
great excitement. "She ain't no moh yourn than she is mine, I reckon;
an' she's goin' to git that money from her 'ristocratic friend, or I'll
know why! Will you git it?" There was a sound of scuffle, as though
someone were shaking another.
"No, I won't," a girl's voice came breathlessly.
There followed, then, the unmistakable sound of a blow, and more frantic
protestations from the whining Mrs. Hewlet.
Aunt Timmie waited no longer. She climbed laboriously over the rickety
wheel, pushed through the tottering gate, waddled up the sunbaked path
lined with jimpson-weeds which were a-buzz with June-bugs, and hesitated
just long enough to judge the carrying capacity of the decaying porch.
She well knew the risks invited by going in here. If Tom were drunk
enough and infuriated enough to strike his step-daughter, what might an
old negress expect? And she reasonably well surmised the circumstances
underlying Tom's present demand. She had not forgotten a fragment of
Brent's conversation with the Colonel one day while she was gathering up
their empty goblets, nor had Zack carried messages without her
knowledge. It seemed that Aunt Timmie's over-powering presence had a
faculty of drawing the innermost secrets from his small body and storing
them in her own big frame, as though they were in need of a safer
depository. Zack appreciated this, which was excuse enough for him. And,
indeed, if they found their way only to Aunt Timmie's hospitable bosom,
all situations were safe. She now knocked at the door and the noises
abruptly stopped. Then it was jerked open by Tom who stood glaring at
her.
"What d'you want?" he demanded.
"I want dat young step-gal of you-all's," she answered with dignity.
"Dey's sent fer her over home."
"The hell they have," Tom exclaimed, with a leer.
"Yas, sah," she replied, secretly frightened, but humble and courteous
before him. "I'se tol' to fetch her 'foh de trouble lands on you."
Tom paled. So they had changed their minds! He cursed his drunken folly
for having tried to bluff two gentlemen of their stamp, and Mrs. Hewlet
set up a wail of lamentation--as she would have done upon any
provocation whatsoever, real or fancied. Nancy alone stood apparently
unmoved before this blow, but her eyes had closed as though to shut out
a horrible, approaching humiliation.
"What d'you mean?" Tom demanded huskily.
He was leaning against the table for support, licking his lips and
staring. And in meeting this stare the old negress lost her own fright,
for she saw a man thoroughly cowered and conquered.
"What d'you mean?" he again asked.
"I don' mean nuthin'," she declared, "'cept dat I knows when dem big
jail dohs down dar at Frankfo't shets, dey's gwine stay shet a long
time, dat's all. Make haste, chile, an' git in mah buggy 'foh I busts
you one;--an' Mrs. Hewlet, dat screetchin' ain' gwine help none!"
Holding back the door for Nancy to pass, Timmie watched with grim
satisfaction Tom's exit from the kitchen; and after they reached the
buggy, both kept their eyes on him as he tramped through the orchard and
disappeared over the hill. The black frame now began to shake.
"You kin go on back now, ef you wants to," she chuckled.
"Why, I thought something awful was about to happen!"
"So dar wuz sumfin awful 'bout to happen, an' happenin'," the old woman
laughed. "But I done put de squee-gee on dat! I hyeerd de fracas, an'
hyeerd what he uz sayin', an' knowed jest 'bout how-cum 'twuz."
"Oh, Aunt Timmie," the girl impulsively cried, "if everyone had your
good heart!"
"Mah heart ain' nuthin' to brag on, chile. I jest happen to know dat in
dis worl' dey's wicked people dat'll stoop deeper'n sin fer a dime; an'
dey's onery people, so mis'ably onery, dat's afeerd to call dey soul dey
own; an' dar's still anurr kind what ain' had no trainin', so when a
stylish gemman comes 'long dey's mighty apt to go wrong, 'caze dey ain'
had a faih show. Now, I reckon, I most named all de fambly;--I ain'
sayin' what fambly, but I is sayin' dat ole Timmie knows moh'n most
pussons reckons she do. 'Sides dat, she kin find moh 'xcuses in her
heart den de worl' kin. Run 'long, now! I jest stepped in 'caze a li'l
gal warn't gittin' a faih show!"
"Oh, Aunt Timmie," the girl cried, "I ain't bad! But that beast wouldn't
care, if he could make them pay more for his farm!"
A strangely beautiful light swept across the wrinkled face.
"Look up at me, chile, an' say dat fu'st agin!"
Nancy raised her flushed cheeks and gazed into the age-marked eyes of
her black inquisitor. Then slowly she repeated:
"I ain't bad, Aunt Timmie!"
A deep sigh, like the passing of cave winds, came from the old woman's
throat.
"Praise de Lawd," she murmured. "I see now you'se not, honey; but jest
why is too much fer me. Run 'long befoh Aunt Timmie make a fool of
herse'f. Dat man's oudacious wickedness is got to be stopped--but you
leave dat to me! Some day I'se gwine send fer you, an' you'se comin'
widout axin' why. Heah dat? Run 'long, now; an' Gawd bress de li'l
lamb!"
There was a riot of confusion in her mind as she climbed back into the
buggy and scolded the old mule until he awoke--or pretended to awake.
The universe as she had arranged it, as she had fitted it together into
a mosaic picture before her cabin hearth-stone, was wrong. The little
cubes were all askew. The technique was false. This girl, whom she had
put into the pile of relics strewn along Brent's path, was no relic at
all, and did not belong there. Dale, whom she had staged to rival that
other gaunt nobleman of Nature--the product of Kentucky who began life
not more than half a hundred miles from the very soil over which she now
was driving, who had likewise toiled and endured much for an education;
who had emancipated her race; whom, with latter day pride, she declared
she had seen in his boyhood;--had now ruined his chances of being
President by killing a man. She rocked slowly and pitifully to and fro,
as the old mule ambled on, bemoaning the mess of pied cubes that now
stood only for destroyed symmetry--a recalcitrant universe. She may have
derived some comfort from the anticipation of rearranging Nancy to a
nicer part, but this was vastly overshadowed by grief at Dale's untimely
act.
She was not guiding the mule, and it turned of its own accord into the
winding woodland road to Flat Rock. She probably did not realize home
was so near until a gentle voice called her name.
Jane was on the lawn, beneath a low spreading, rambling maple tree whose
summer shade had not for years been pierced by a single shaft of
sunlight. A rustic table and some rustic chairs were there. It was a
spot she chose for the examination of Dale's papers.
Aunt Timmie went on and tied the mule, but tarried not to change her
freshly starched calico dress. This was no day whereon to spare clothes.
Atop her red bandanna a sunbonnet perched neglected. A small, aggressive
tuft of white wool had squeezed below this head-kerchief and was being
held in check by ponderous silver-rimmed spectacles, absently pushed up
on her forehead. Such an excess of head gear seemed excuse enough for
the perspiration trickling down her face as she now looked sorrowfully
at the girl.
"Is dem sums?" she asked.
With the pencil end between her teeth, Jane looked up and nodded.
"Well," Aunt Timmie sighed, "he's done done a sum now dat beats 'em all
holler! I got to set down, honey; mah bones is jest cussin' wid
misery."
Aunt Timmie, as may have been mentioned, never betrayed a secret except
to the one confidant she implicitly trusted. This was Jane. And Jane
would not breathe her trust but to the one person with whom she knew all
things were safe. This was Ann. And Ann would have gone smilingly and
willingly to the rack rather than whisper a word, except to Bob. And
thus it was that, in the last resort, the stream from Uncle Zack's
spring of secrets trickled through many silent places to pour itself
into Bob's casual reservoirs.
Jane sat, pale and sometimes trembling, as Aunt Timmie unfolded the
story of Zack's concoction, colored here and there with promptings of
the old woman's own imagination. She heard each detail, and saw with
shocking vividness the shot fired into the back of a man's head, and saw
him fall across his threshold. Creepy feelings touched her body at this
sickening reminder of a day she had stooped to awaken her father, and
found that he had fallen in an everlasting, rather than a drunken,
sleep. She shivered. The old woman finished, wiped her face and again
mournfully rocked her body to and fro.
"When did it happen?" Jane whispered.
"I reckon sometime yistiddy; but it couldn' a-been so ve'y long ago,
noway!"
Without another word Jane pushed back the sums and passed swiftly
stableward across the lawn. There was no one at the stables, but she
took down her bridle and walked past the long row of box-stalls, finally
entering when she came to a horse she knew. Understanding something of
her need, he took the bit in his mouth before she had even pressed
it--a little act of kindness which, from that time forward, made her his
staunch friend.
"Now if you won't swell up when I try to tighten the girth," she
pleaded, on the verge of tears.
She had forgotten to whistle for Mac.