have always been thrown with older persons. And then my mother has been
ill a long, long time, and I have been compelled to do a great deal of
thinking. I know of nothing more disagreeable than to have to think. Do
you dislike poor folks?"
"No, I don't," replied Nan, snuggling up to Margaret. "Some of my very
bestest friends are poor."
Margaret smiled at the childish adjective, and placed her cheek against
Nan's for a moment. "I'm glad you don't dislike poverty," she said, "for
we are very poor."
"When it comes to that," Nan responded, "everybody around here is
poor--everybody except Grandfather Clopton and Mr. Tomlin. They have
money, but I don't know where they get it. Nonny says that some folks
have only to dream of money, and when they wake in the morning they find
it under their pillows."
Dr. Dorrington came downstairs at this moment. "Your mother is very much
better than she was awhile ago," he said to Margaret. "She never should
have made so long a journey. She has wasted in that way strength enough
to have kept her alive for six months."
"I begged and implored her not to undertake it," the daughter explained,
"but nothing would move her. Even when she needed nourishing food, she
refused to buy it; she was saving it to bring her home."
"Well, she is here, now, and we'll do the best we can. Gabriel, will you
run over, and ask Fanny Tomlin to come? And if Neighbour Tomlin is there
tell him I want to see him on some important business."
It was very clear to Gabriel from all this that there was small hope
for the poor lady above. She might be better than she was when the
doctor arrived, but there was no ray of hope to be gathered from Dr.
Dorrington's countenance.
Pulaski Tomlin and his sister responded to the summons at once; and with
Gabriel's grandmother holding her hand, the poor lady had an interview
with Pulaski Tomlin. But she never saw his face nor he hers. The large
screen was carried upstairs from the dining-room, and placed in front of
the bed; and near the door a chair was placed for Pulaski Tomlin. It was
the heart's desire of the dying lady that Neighbour Tomlin should become
the guardian of her daughter. He was deeply affected when told of her
wishes, but before consenting to accept the responsibility, asked to see
the daughter, and went to the parlour, where she was sitting with Nan
and Gabriel. When he came in Nan ran and kissed him as she never failed
to do, for, though his face on one side was so scarred and drawn that
the sight of it sometimes shocked strangers, those who knew him well,
found his wounded countenance singularly attractive.
"This is Margaret," he said, taking the girl's hand. "Come into the
light, my dear, where you may see me as I am. Your mother has expressed
a wish that I should become your guardian. As an old and very dear
friend of mine, she has the right to make the request. I am willing and
more than willing to meet her wishes, but first I must have your
consent."
They went into the hallway, which was flooded with light. "Are you the
Mr. Tomlin of whom I have heard my mother speak?" Margaret asked,
fixing her clear eyes on his face; and when he had answered in the
affirmative--"I wonder that she asked you, after what she has told me.
She certainly has no claims on you."
"Ah, my dear, that is where you are wrong," he insisted. "I feel that
every one in this world has claims on me, especially those who were my
friends in old times. It is I who made a mistake, and not your mother;
and I should be glad to rectify that mistake now, as far as I can, by
carrying out her wishes. You know, of course, that she is very ill; will
you go up and speak with her?"
"No, not now; not when there are so many strangers there," Margaret
replied, and stood looking at him with almost childish wonder.
At this moment, Nan, who knew by heart all the little tricks of
friendship and affection, left Margaret, and took her stand by Neighbour
Tomlin's side. It was an indorsement that the other could not withstand.
She followed Nan, and said very firmly and earnestly, "It shall be as my
mother wishes."
"I hope you will never have cause to regret it," remarked Pulaski Tomlin
solemnly.
"She never will," Nan declared emphatically, as Pulaski Tomlin turned to
go upstairs.
He went up very slowly, as if lost in thought. He went to the room and
stood leaning against the framework of the door. "Pulaski is here," said
Miss Fanny, who had been waiting to announce his return.
"You remember, Pulaski," the invalid began, "that once when you were
ill, you would not permit me to see you. I was so ignorant that I was
angry; yes, and bitter; my vanity was wounded. And I was ignorant and
bitter for many years. I never knew until eighteen months ago why I was
not permitted to see you. I knew it one day, after I had been ill a long
time. I looked in the mirror and saw my wasted face and hollow eyes. I
knew then, and if I had known at first, Pulaski, everything would have
been so different. I have come all this terrible journey to ask you to
take my daughter and care for her. It is my last wish that you should be
her guardian and protector. Is she in the room? Can she hear what I am
about to say?"
"No, Margaret," replied Pulaski Tomlin, in a voice that was tremulous
and husky. "She is downstairs; I have just seen her."
"Well, she has no father according to my way of thinking," Margaret
Bridalbin went on. "Her father is a deserter from the Confederate army.
She doesn't know that; I tried to tell her, but my heart failed me.
Neither does she know that I have been divorced from him. These things
you can tell her when the occasion arises. If I had told her, it would
have been like accusing myself. I was responsible--I felt it and feel
it--and I simply could not tell her."
"I shall try to carry out your wishes, Margaret," said Pulaski Tomlin;
"I have seen your daughter, as Fanny suggested, and she has no objection
to the arrangement. I shall do all that you desire. She shall be to me a
most sacred charge."
"If you knew how happy you are making me, Pulaski--Oh, I am
grateful--grateful!"
"There should be no talk of gratitude between you and me, Margaret."
At a signal from Pulaski Tomlin, Judge Odom cleared his throat, and read
the document that he had drawn up, and his strong, business-like voice
went far toward relieving the strain that had been put on those who
heard the conversation between the dying woman and the man who had
formerly been her lover. Everything was arranged as she desired, every
wish she expressed had been carried out; and then, as if there was
nothing else to be done, the poor lady closed her eyes with a sigh, and
opened them no more in this world. It seemed that nothing had sustained
her but the hope of placing her daughter in charge of Pulaski Tomlin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
_Silas Tomlin Goes A-Calling_
When the solemn funeral ceremonies were over, it was arranged that Nan
should spend a few days with her new friend, Margaret Gaither--she was
never called by the name of her father after her mother died--and
Gabriel took advantage of Nan's temporary absence to pay a visit to Mrs.
Absalom. He was very fond of that strong-minded woman; but since Nan had
grown to be such a young lady, he had not called as often as he had been
in the habit of doing. He was afraid, indeed, that some one would accuse
him of a sneaking desire to see Nan, and he was also afraid of the
quizzing which Nan's father was always eager to apply. But with Nan
away--her absence being notorious, as you may say--Gabriel felt that he
could afford to call on the genial housekeeper.
Mrs. Absalom had for years been the manager of the Dorrington household,
and she retained her place even after Randolph Dorrington had taken for
his second wife Zepherine Dion, who had been known as Miss Johns, and
who was now called Mrs. Johnny Dorrington. In that household, indeed,
Mrs. Absalom was indispensable, and it was very fortunate that she and
Mrs. Johnny were very fond of each other. Her maiden name was Margaret
Rorick, and she came of a family that had long been attached to the
Dorringtons. In another clime, and under a different system, the Roricks
would have been described as retainers. They were that and much more.
They served without fee or reward. They were retainers in the highest
and best sense; for, in following the bent of their affections, they
retained their independence, their simple dignity and their
self-respect; and in that region, which was then, and is now, the most
democratic in the world, they were as well thought of as the Cloptons or
the Dorringtons.
It came to pass, in the order of events, that Margaret Rorick married
Mr. Absalom Goodlett, who was the manager of the Dorrington plantation.
Though she was no chicken, as she said herself, Mr. Goodlett was her
senior by several years. She was also, in a sense, the victim of the
humour that used to run riot in Middle Georgia; for, in spite of her
individuality, which was vigorous and aggressive, she lost her own name
and her husband's too. At Margaret Rorick's wedding, or, rather, at the
infair, which was the feast after the wedding, Mr. Uriah Lazenby, whose
memory is kept green by his feats at tippling, and who combined fiddling
with farming, furnished the music for the occasion. Being something of a
privileged character, and having taken a thimbleful too much dram, as
fiddlers will do, the world over, Mr. Lazenby rose in his place, when
the company had been summoned to the feast, and remarked:
"Margaret Rorick, now that the thing's been gone and done, and can't be
holp, I nominate you Mrs. Absalom, an' Mrs. Absalom it shall be
herearter. Ab Goodlett, you ought to be mighty proud when you can fling
your bridle on a filly like that, an' lead her home jest for the bar'
sesso."
The loud laughter that followed placed the bride at a temporary
disadvantage. She joined in, however, and then exclaimed: "My goodness!
Old Uriah's drunk ag'in; you can't pull a stopper out'n a jug in the
same house wi' him but what he'll dribble at the mouth an' git shaky in
the legs."
But drunk or sober, Uriah had "nominated" Mrs. Absalom for good and all.
One reason why this "nomination" was seized on so eagerly was the sudden
change that had taken place in Miss Rorick's views in regard to
matrimony. She was more than thirty years old when she consented to
become Mrs. Absalom. Up to that time she had declared over and over
again that there wasn't a man in the world she'd look at, much less
marry.
Now, many a woman has said the same thing and changed her mind without
attracting attention; but Mrs. Absalom's views on matrimony, and her
pithy criticisms of the male sex in general, had flown about on the
wings of her humour, and, in that way, had come to have wide
advertisement. But her "nomination" interfered neither with her
individuality, nor with her ability to indulge in pithy comments on
matters and things in general. Of Mr. Lazenby, she said later: "What's
the use of choosin' betwixt a fool an' a fiddler, when you can git both
in the same package?"
She made no bad bargain when she married Mr. Goodlett. His irritability
was all on the surface. At bottom, he was the best-natured and most
patient of men--a philosopher who was so thoroughly contented with the
ways of the world and the order of Providence, that he had no desire to
change either--and so comfortable in his own views and opinions that he
was not anxious to convert others to his way of thinking. If anything
went wrong, it was like a garment turned inside out; it would "come out
all right in the washin'."
Mrs. Absalom's explanation of her change of views in the subject of
matrimony was very simple and reasonable. "Why, a single 'oman," she
said, "can't cut no caper at all; she can't hardly turn around wi'out
bein' plumb tore to pieces by folks's tongues. But now--you see Ab over
there? Well, he ain't purty enough for a centre-piece, nor light enough
for to be set on the mantel-shelf, but it's a comfort to see him in that
cheer there, knowin' all the time that you can do as you please, and
nobody dastin to say anything out of the way. Why, I could put on Ab's
old boots an' take his old buggy umbrell, an' go an' jine the muster.
The men might snicker behind the'r han's, but all they could say would
be, 'Well, ef that kind of a dido suits Ab Goodlett, it ain't nobody
else's business.'"
It happened that Mr. Sanders was the person to whom Mrs. Absalom was
addressing her remarks, and he inquired if such an unheard of proceeding
would be likely to suit Mr. Goodlett.
"To a t!" she exclaimed. "Why, he wouldn't bat his eye. He mought grunt
an' groan a little jest to let you know that he's alive, but that'd be
all. An' that's the trouble: ef Ab has any fault in the world that you
can put your finger on, it's in bein' too good. You know,
William--anyhow, you'd know it ef you belonged to my seck--that there's
lots of times and occasions when it'd make the wimmen folks feel lots
better ef they had somethin' or other to rip and rare about. My old cat
goes about purrin', the very spit and image of innocence; but she'd die
ef she didn't show her claws sometimes. Once in awhile I try my level
best for to pick a quarrel wi' Ab, but before I say a dozen words, I
look at him an' have to laugh. Why the way that man sets there an' says
nothin' is enough to make a saint ashamed of hisself."
It was the general opinion that Mr. Goodlett, who was shrewd and
far-seeing beyond the average, had an eye to strengthening his relations
with Dr. Dorrington, when he "popped the question" to Margaret Rorick.
But such was not the case. His relations needed no strengthening. He
managed Dorrington's agricultural interests with uncommon ability, and
brought rare prosperity to the plantation. Unlettered, and, to all
appearances, taking no interest in public affairs, he not only foresaw
the end of the Civil War, but looked forward to the time when the
Confederate Government, pressed for supplies, would urge upon the States
the necessity of limiting the raising of cotton.
He gave both Meriwether Clopton and Neighbour Tomlin the benefit of
these views; and then, when the rumours of Sherman's march through
Georgia grew rifer he made a shrewd guess as to the route, and succeeded
in hiding out and saving, not only all the cotton the three plantations
had grown, but also all the livestock. Having an ingrained suspicion of
the negroes, and entertaining against them the prejudices of his class,
Mr. Goodlett employed a number of white boys from the country districts
to aid him with his refugee train. And he left them in charge of the
camp he had selected, knowing full well that they would be glad to
remain in hiding as long as the Federal soldiers were about.
The window of the dining-room at Dorringtons' commanded a view of the
street for a considerable distance toward town, and it was at this
window that Mrs. Absalom had her favourite seat. She explained her
preference for it by saying that she wanted to know what was going on in
the world. She looked out from this window one day while she was talking
to Gabriel Tolliver, whose visits to Dorringtons' had come to be
coincident with Nan's absence, and suddenly exclaimed:
"Well, my gracious! Ef yonder ain't old Picayune Pauper! I wonder what
we have done out this way that old Picayune should be sneakin' around
here? I'll tell you what--ef Ab has borried arry thrip from old Silas
Tomlin, I'll quit him; I won't live wi' a man that'll have anything to
do wi' that old scamp. As I'm a livin' human, he's comin' here!"
Now, Silas Tomlin was Neighbour Tomlin's elder brother, but the two men
were as different in character and disposition as a warm bright day is
different from a bitter black night. Pulaski Tomlin gave his services
freely to all who needed them, and he was happy and prosperous; whereas
Silas was a miserly money-lender and note-shaver, and always appeared to
be in the clutches of adversity. To parsimony he added the sting--yes,
and the stain--of a peevish and an irritable temper. It was as Mrs.
Absalom had said--"a picayunish man is a pauper, I don't care how much
money he's got."
"I'll go see ef Johnny is in the house," said Mrs. Absalom. "Johnny" was
Mrs. Dorrington, who, in turn, called Mrs. Absalom "Nonny," which was
Nan's pet name for the woman who had raised her--"I'll go see, but I
lay she's gone to see Nan; I never before seed a step-mammy so wropped
up in her husband's daughter." Nan, as has been said, was spending a few
days with poor Margaret Bridalbin, whose mother had just been buried.
Mrs. Absalom called Mrs. Dorrington, and then looked for her, but she
was not to be found at the moment. "I reckon you'll have to go to the
door, Gabe," said Mrs. Absalom, as the knocker sounded. "Sence freedom,
we ain't got as many niggers lazyin' around an' doin' nothin' as we use
to have."
"Is Mr. Goodlett in?" asked Silas Tomlin, when Gabriel opened the door.
"I think he's in Malvern," Gabriel answered, as politely as he could.
"No, no, no!" exclaimed Silas Tomlin, with a terrible frown; "you don't
know a thing about it, not a thing in the world. He got back right after
dinner."
"Well, ef he did," said Mrs. Absalom, coming forward, "he didn't come
here. He ain't cast a shadow in this house sence day before yistiddy,
when he went to Malvern."
"How are you, Mrs. Absalom?--how are you?" said Silas, with a tremendous
effort at politeness. "I hope you are well; you are certainly looking
well. You say your husband is not in? Well, I'm sorry; I wanted to see
him on business; I wanted to get some information."
"Ab don't owe you anything, I hope," remarked Mrs. Absalom, ignoring the
salutation.
"Not a thing--not a thing in the world. But why do you ask? Many people
have the idea that I'm rolling in money--that's what I hear--and they
think that I go about loaning it to Tom, Dick and Harry. But it is not
so--it is not so; I have no money."
Mrs. Absalom laughed ironically, saying, "I reckon if your son Paul was
to scratch about under the house, he'd find small change about in
places."
Silas Tomlin looked hard at Mrs. Absalom, his little black eyes
glistening under his coarse, heavy eyebrows like those of some wild
animal. He was not a prepossessing man. He was so bald that he was
compelled to wear a skull-cap, and the edge of this showed beneath the
brim of his chimney-pot hat. His face needed a razor; and the grey beard
coming through the cuticle, gave a ghastly, bluish tint to the pallor of
his countenance. His broadcloth coat--Mrs. Absalom called it a
"shadbelly"--was greasy at the collar, and worn at the seams, and his
waistcoat was stained with ambeer. His trousers, which were much too
large for him, bagged at the knees, and his boots were run down at the
heels. Though he was temperate to the last degree, he had the appearance
of a man who is the victim of some artificial stimulant.
"What put that idea in your head, Mrs. Goodlett?" he asked, after
looking long and searchingly at Mrs. Absalom.
"Well, I allowed that when you was countin' out your cash, a thrip or
two mought have slipped through the cracks in the floor," she replied;
"sech things have happened before now."
He wiped his thin lips with his lean forefinger, and stood hesitating,
whereupon Mrs. Absalom remarked: "It sha'n't cost you a cent ef you'll
come in. Ab'll be here purty soon ef somebody ain't been fool enough to
give him his dinner. His health'll fail him long before his appetite
does. Show Mr. Tomlin in the parlour, Gabriel, an' I'll see about Ab's
dinner; I don't want it to burn to a cracklin' before he gits it."
Silas Tomlin went into the parlour and sat down, while Gabriel stood
hesitating, not knowing what to do or say. He was embarrassed, and Silas
Tomlin saw it. "Oh, take a seat," he said, with a show of impatience.
"What are you doing for yourself, Tolliver? You're a big boy now, and
you ought to be making good money. We'll all have to work now: we'll
have to buckle right down to it. The way I look at it, the man who is
doing nothing is throwing money away; yes, sir, throwing it away. What
does Adam Smith say? Why, he says----"
Gabriel never found out what particular statement of Adam Smith was to
be thrown at his head, for at that moment, Mr. Goodlett called out from
the dining-room: "Si Tomlin in there, Gabriel? Well, fetch him out here
whar I live at. I ain't got no parlours for company." By the time that
Gabriel had led Mr. Silas Tomlin into the dining-room, Mr. Goodlett had
a plate of victuals carrying it to the kitchen; and he remarked as he
went along, "I got nuther parlours nor dinin'-rooms: fetch him out here
to the kitchen whar we both b'long at."
If Silas Tomlin objected to this arrangement, he gave no sign; he
followed without a word, Mr. Goodlett placed his plate on the table
where the dishes were washed, and dropped his hat on the floor beside
him, and began to attack his dinner most vigorously. Believing,
evidently, that ordinary politeness would be wasted here, Silas entered
at once on the business that had brought him to Dorringtons'.
"Sorry to trouble you, Goodlett," he said by way of making a beginning.
"I notice you ain't cryin' none to hurt," remarked Mr. Goodlett
placidly. "An' ef you was, you'd be cryin' for nothin'. You ain't
troublin' me a mite. Forty an' four like you can't trouble me."
"You'll have to excuse Ab," said Mrs. Goodlett, who had preceded Gabriel
and Silas to the kitchen. "He's lost his cud, an' he won't be right well
till he finds it ag'in." She placed her hand over her mouth to hide her
smiles.
Silas Tomlin paid no attention to this by-play. He stood like a man who
is waiting an opportunity to get in a word.
"Goodlett, who were the ladies you brought from Malvern to-day?" His
face was very serious.
"You know 'em lots better'n I do. The oldest seed you out in the field,
an' she axed me who you mought be. I told her, bekaze I ain't got no
secrets from my passengers, specially when they're good-lookin' an'
plank down the'r money before they start. Arter I told 'em who you was,
the oldest made you a mighty purty bow, but you wer'n't polite enough
for to take off your hat. I dunno as I blame you much, all things
considered. Then the youngest, she's the daughter, she says, says she,
'Is that reely him, ma?' an' t'other one, says she, 'Ef it's him, honey,
he's swunk turrible.' She said them very words."
"I wonder who in the world they can be?" said Silas Tomlin, as if
talking to himself.
"You'll think of the'r names arter awhile," Mr. Goodlett remarked by way
of consolation, but his tone was so suspicious that Silas turned on his
heel--he had started out--and asked Mr. Goodlett what he meant.
"Adzackly what I said, nuther more nor less."
Mrs. Absalom was so curious to find out something more that Silas was
hardly out of the house before she began to ply her husband with
questions. But they were all futile. Mr. Goodlett knew no more than
that he had brought the women from Malvern; that they had chanced to
spy old Silas Tomlin in a field by the side of the road, and that when
the elder of the two women found out what his name was, she made him a
bow, which Silas wasn't polite enough to return.
"That's all I know," remarked Mr. Goodlett. "Dog take the wimmen
anyhow!" he exclaimed indignantly; "ef they'd stay at home they'd be all
right; but here they go, a-trapesin' an' a-trollopin' all over creation,
an' a-givin' trouble wherever they go. They git me so muddled an'
befuddled wi' ther whickerin' an' snickerin' that I dunner which een'
I'm a-stannin' on half the time. Nex' time they want to ride wi' me,
I'll say, 'Walk!' By jacks! I won't haul 'em."
This episode, if it may be called such, made small impression on
Gabriel's mind, but it tickled Mrs. Goodlett's mind into activity, and
the lad heard more of Silas Tomlin during the next hour than he had ever
known before. In a manner, Silas was a very important factor in the
community, as money-lenders always are, but according to Gabriel's idea,
he was always one of the poorest creatures in the world.