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 of _Blackwood's Magazine_ the 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."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
_Silas Tomlin Finds Trouble_
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."