"Why, I thought he was a cold-blooded, heartless creature," she said to
herself. Then, after some reflection she uttered an exclamation and
clasped her hands together. Suppose he were to make way with himself!
The bare thought was enough to keep the smiles away from the face of
this merry-hearted lady for many long minutes. Finally, she caught a
glimpse of herself in the swinging mirror. She snapped her fingers at
her reflection, saying, "Pooh! I wouldn't give that for your firmness of
purpose!"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
_Rhody Has Something to Say_
Now, all this time, while the mother was engaged with Silas, Eugenia,
the daughter, was having an experience of her own. When Rhody, Silas
Tomlin's cook and housekeeper, discovered that Paul had left the house
in a fit of anger, she knew at once that something unusual had occurred,
and her indignation against Silas Tomlin rose high. She was familiar
with every peculiarity of Paul's character, and she was well aware of
the fact that behind his calm and cool bearing, which nothing ever
seemed to ruffle, was a heart as sensitive and as tender as that of a
woman, and a temper hot, obstinate and unreasonable when aroused.
So, without taking time to serve Silas's supper, she went in search of
Paul. She went to the store where he was the chief clerk, but the doors
were closed; she went to the tavern, but he was not to be seen; and she
walked along the principal streets, where sometimes the young men
strolled after tea. There she met a negro woman, who suggested that he
might be at the Gaither Place. "Humph!" snorted Rhody, "how come dat
ain't cross my mind? But ef he's dar dis night, ef he run ter dat gal
when he in trouble, I better be layin' off ter cook some weddin'
doin's."
There wasn't a backyard in the town that Rhody didn't know as well as
she knew her own, and she stood on no ceremony in entering any of them.
She went to the Gaither Place, swung back the gate, shutting it after
her with a bang, and stalked into the kitchen as though it belonged to
her. At the moment there was no one in sight but Mandy, the house-girl,
a bright and good-looking mulatto.
"Why, howdy, Miss Rhody!" she exclaimed, in a voice that sounded like a
flute. "What wind blowed you in here?"
"Put down dem dishes an' wipe yo' han's," said Rhody, by way of reply.
The girl silently complied, expressing no surprise and betraying no
curiosity. "Now, den, go in de house, an' ax ef Paul Tomlin is in dar,"
commanded Rhody. "Ef he is des tell 'im dat Mammy Rhody want ter see
'im."
"I hope dey ain't nobody dead," suggested Mandy with a musical laugh.
"I'm lookin' out for all sorts er trouble, because I've had mighty funny
dreams for three nights han'-runnin'. Look like I can see blood. I wake
up, I do, cryin' an' feelin' tired out like de witches been ridin' me.
Then I drop off to sleep, an' there's the blood, plain as my han'."
She went on in the house and Rhody followed close at her heels. She was
determined to see Paul if she could. She was very willing for Silas
Tomlin to be drawn through a hackle; she was willing to see murder done
if the whites were to be the victims; but Paul--well, according to her
view, Paul was one of a thousand. She had given him suck; she had
fretted and worried about him for twenty years; and she couldn't break
off her old habits all at once. She had listened to and indorsed the
incendiary doctrines of the radical emissary who pretended to be
representing the government; she had wept and shouted over the strenuous
pleadings of the Rev. Jeremiah; but all these things were wholly apart
from Paul. And if she had had the remotest idea that they affected his
interests or his future, she would have risen in the church and
denounced the carpet-bagger and his scalawag associates, and likewise
the Rev. Jeremiah.
When Mandy, closely followed by Rhody, went into the house, she heard
voices in the parlour, but Eugenia was in the sitting-room reading by
the light of a lamp.
"Miss Genia," said the girl, "is Mr. Paul here?"
"Why do you ask?" inquired Eugenia.
"They-all cook wanter speak with him." At this moment, Eugenia saw the
somewhat grim face of Rhody peering over the girl's shoulder.
"Paul isn't here," said the young lady, rising with a vague feeling of
alarm. "What is the matter?" And then, feeling that if there was any
trouble, Rhody would feel freer to speak when they were alone together,
Eugenia dismissed Mandy, and followed to see that the girl went out.
"Now, what _is_ the trouble, Rhody? Mr. Silas Tomlin is in the parlour
talking to mother."
Rhody opened her eyes wide at this. "_He_ in dar? What de name er
goodness he doin' here?" Eugenia didn't know, of course, and said so.
"Well, he ain't atter no good," Rhody went on; "you kin put dat down in
black an' white. Dat man is sho' ter leave a smutty track wharsomever he
walk at. You better watch 'im; you better keep yo' eye on 'im. Is he
yever loant yo' ma any money?"
"Why, no," replied Eugenia, laughing at the absurdity of the question.
"What put that idea in your head?"
"Bekaze dat's his business--loanin' out a little dab er money here an' a
little dab dar, an' gittin' back double de dab he loant," said Rhody.
"Deyer folks in dis county, which he loant um money, an' now he got all
de prop'ty dey yever had; an' deyer folks right here in dis town, which
he loant um dat ar Conferick money when it want wuff much mo dan
shavin's, an' now dey got ter pay 'im back sho nuff money. I hear 'im
sesso. Oh, dat's him! dat's Silas Tomlin up an' down. You kin take a
thrip an' squeeze it in yo' han' tell it leave a print, an' hol' it up
whar folks kin see it, an' dar you got his pictur'; all it'll need will
be a frame. He done druv Paul 'way fum home."
She spoke with some heat, and really went further than she intended, but
she was swept away by her indignation. She was certain, knowing Paul as
well as she did, that he had left the house in a fit of anger at
something his father had said or done and she was equally as certain
that he would have to be coaxed back.
"Surely you are mistaken," said Eugenia. "It is too ridiculous. Why,
Paul--Mr. Paul is----" She paused and stood there blushing.
"Go on, chile: say it out; don't be shame er me. Nobody can't say
nothin' good 'bout dat boy but what I kin put a lots mo' on what dey er
tellin'. Silas Tomlin done tol' me out'n his own mouf dat Paul went fum
de house vowin' he'd never come back."
Eugenia was so sure that Rhody (after her kind and colour) was
exaggerating, that she refused to be disturbed by the statement. "Why
did you come here hunting for Paul?" the young lady asked.
"Oh, go away, Miss Genia!" exclaimed Rhody, laughing. "'Tain't no needs
er my answerin' dat, kaze you know lots better'n I does."
"Are you very fond of him?" Eugenia inquired.
"Who--_me_? Why, honey, I raised 'im. Sick er well, I nussed 'im fer
long years. I helt 'im in deze arms nights an' nights, when all he had
ter do fer ter leave dis vale wuz ter fetch one gasp an' go. Ef his
daddy had done all dat, he wouldn't 'a' druv de boy fum home."
Alas! how could Rhody, in her ignorance and blindness, probe the
recesses of a soul as reticent as that of Silas Tomlin?
"Oh, don't say he was driven from home!" cried Eugenia, rising and
placing a hand on Rhody's arm. "If you talk that way, other people will
take it up, and it won't be pleasant for Paul."
"Dat sho is a mighty purty han'," exclaimed Rhody enthusiastically,
ignoring the grave advice of the young woman. "I'm gwine ter show
somebody de place whar you laid it, an' I bet you he'll wanter cut de
cloff out an' put it in his alvum."
Eugenia made a pretence of pushing Rhody out of the room, but she was
blushing and smiling. "Well'm, he ain't here, sho, an' here's whar he
oughter be; but I'll fin' 'im dis night an' ef he ain't gwine back home,
I ain't gwine back--you kin put dat down." With that, she bade the young
lady good-night, and went out.
As Rhody passed through the back gate, she chanced to glance toward
Pulaski Tomlin's house, and saw a light shining from the library window.
"Ah-yi!" she exclaimed, "he's dar, an' dey ain't no better place fer
'im. Dey's mo' home fer 'im right dar den dey yever wus er yever will be
whar he live at."
So saying, she turned her steps in the direction of Neighbour Tomlin's.
In the kitchen, she asked if Paul was in the house. The cook didn't
know, but when the house-girl came out, she said that Mr. Paul was
there, and had been for some time. "Deyer holdin' a reg'lar expeunce
meetin' in dar," she said. "Miss Fanny sho is a plum sight!"
The house-girl went in again to say that Rhody would like to speak with
him, and Rhody, as was her custom, followed at her heels.
"Come in, Rhody," said Miss Fanny. "I know you are there. You always
send a message, and then go along with it to see if it is delivered
correctly. 'Twould save a great deal of trouble if the rest of us were
to adopt your plan."
"I hope you all is well," remarked Rhody, as she made her appearance.
"I declar', Miss Fanny, you look good enough to eat."
"Well, I do eat," responded Miss Fanny, teasingly.
"I mean you look good enough ter be etted," said Rhody, correcting
herself.
"Now, that is what I call a nice compliment," Miss Fanny observed
complacently. "Brother Pulaski, if I am ever 'etted' you won't have to
raise a monument to my memory."
"No wonder you look young," laughed Rhody. "Anybody what kin git fun
out'n a graveyard is bleeze ter look young."
Paul was lying on the wide lounge that was one of the features of the
library. His eyes were closed, and his Aunt Fanny was gently stroking
his hair. Pulaski Tomlin leaned back in an easy chair, lazily enjoying a
cigar, the delicate flavour of which filled the room. There was
something serene and restful in the group, in the furniture, in all the
accessories and surroundings. The negro woman turned around and looked
at everything in the room, as if trying to discover what produced the
effect of perfect repose.
It is the rule that everything beautiful and precious in this world
should have mystery attached to it. There is the enduring mystery of
art, the mystery that endows plain flesh and blood with genius. A little
child draws you by its beauty; there is mystery unfathomable in its
eyes. You enter a home, no matter how fine, no matter how humble; it may
be built of logs, and its furnishings may be of the poorest; but if it
is a home, a real home, you will know it unmistakably the moment you
step across the threshold. Some subtle essence, as mysterious as thought
itself, will find its way to your mind and enlighten your instinct. You
will know, however fine the dwelling, whether the spirit of home dwells
there.
Rhody, as she looked around in the vain effort to get a clew to the
secret, wondered why she always felt so comfortable in this house. She
sighed as she seated herself on the floor at the foot of the lounge on
which Paul lay. This was her privilege. If Miss Fanny could sit at his
head, Rhody could sit at his feet.
"You wanted to speak to Paul," suggested Miss Fanny.
"Yes'm; he lef' de house in a huff, an' I wanter know ef he gwine
back--kaze ef he ain't, I'm gwineter move way fum dar. He ain't take
time fer ter git his supper."
"Why, Paul!" exclaimed Miss Fanny.
"I couldn't eat a mouthful to save my life," said Paul.
"Whar Miss Margaret?" Rhody inquired; and she seemed pleased to hear
that the young lady was spending the night with Nan Dorrington. "Honey,"
she said to Paul, "how come yo' pa went ter de Gaither Place ter-night?
What business he got dar?"
This was news to Paul, and he could make no reply to Rhody's question.
He reflected over the matter a little while. "Was he really there?" he
asked finally.
"I hear 'im talkin' in de parlour, an' Miss Genia say it's him."
"What were _you_ doing there?" inquired Miss Fanny, pushing her jaunty
grey curls behind her ears.
"A coloured 'oman recommen' me ter go dar ef I wan' ter fin' dat chile."
"Why, Paul! And is the wind really blowing in that quarter?" cried Miss
Fanny, leaning over and kissing him on the forehead.
"Now, Mammy Rhody, why did you do that?" Paul asked with considerable
irritation. "What will Miss Eugenia and her mother think?" He sat bolt
upright on the sofa.
"Well, her ma ain't see me, an' Miss Genia look like she wuz sorry I
couldn't fin' you dar."
Miss Fanny laughed, but Rhody was perfectly serious. "Miss Fanny," she
said, turning to the lady, "how come dat chile lef' home?"
"Shall I tell her, Paul? I may as well." Whereupon she told the negro
woman the cause of Paul's anger, and ended by saying that she didn't
blame him for showing the spirit of a Southern gentleman.
"Well, he'll never j'ine de 'Publican Party in dis county," Rhody
declared emphatically.
"He will if he has made up his mind to do so. You don't know Silas,"
said Miss Fanny.
"Who--me? Me not know dat man? Huh! I know 'im better'n he know hisse'f;
an' I know some yuther folks, too. I tell you right now, he'll never
j'ine; an' ef you don't believe me, you wait an' see. Time I git thoo
wid his kaycter, de 'Publicans won't tetch 'im wid a ten-foot pole."
"I hope you are right," said Pulaski Tomlin, speaking for the first
time. "There's enough trouble in the land without having a scalawag in
the Tomlin family."
"Well, you nee'nter worry 'bout dat, kaze I'll sho put a stop ter dem
kinder doin's. Honey," Rhody went on, addressing Paul, "you come on home
when you git sleepy; I'm gwineter set up fer you, an' ef you don't come,
yo' pa'll hatter cook his own vittles ter-morrer mornin'."
"Good-night, Rhody, and pleasant dreams," said Miss Fanny, as the negro
woman started out.
"I dunner how anybody kin have pleasin' drams ef dey sleep in de same
lot wid Marse Silas," replied Rhody. "Good-night all."
Now, the cook at the Tomlin Place was the wife of the Rev. Jeremiah. She
was a tall, thin woman, some years older than her husband, and she ruled
him with a rod of iron. The new conditions, combined with the insidious
flattery of the white radicals, had made her vicious against the whites.
Rhody knew this, and from the "big house," she went into the kitchen,
where Mrs. Jeremiah was cleaning up for the night. Her name was Patsy.
"You gittin' mighty thick wid de white folks, Sis' Rhody," said Patsy,
pausing in her work, as the other entered the door.
For answer, Rhody fell into a chair, held both hands high above her
head, and then let them drop in her lap. The gesture was effective for a
dozen interpretations. "Well!" she exclaimed, and then paused, Patsy
watching her narrowly the while. "I dunner how 'tis wid you, Sis' Patsy,
but wid me, it's live an' l'arn--live an' l'arn. An' I'm a-larnin',
mon, spite er de fack dat de white folks think niggers ain't got no
sense."
"Dey does! Dey does!" exclaimed Patsy. "Dey got de idee dat we all ain't
got no mo' sense dan a passel er fryin'-size chickens. But dey'll fin'
out better, an' den--Ah-h-h!" This last exclamation was a hoarse
gutteral cry of triumph.
"You sho is talkin' now!" cried Rhody, with an admiring smile. "I knows
it ter-night, ef I never is know'd it befo'."
Patsy knew that some disclosure was coming, and she invited it by
putting Rhody on the defensive. "It's de trufe," she declared. "Dat what
make me feel so quare, Sis' Rhody, when I see you so ready fer ter
collogue wid de white folks. I wuz talkin' wid Jerry 'bout it no
longer'n las' night. Yes'm, I wuz. I say, 'Jerry, what de matter wid
Sis' Rhody?' He say, 'Which away, Pidgin?'--desso; he allers call me
Pidgin," explained Patsy, with a smile of pride. "I say, 'By de way she
colloguin' wid de white folks.'"
"What Br'er Jerry say ter dat?" inquired Rhody.
"He des shuck his head an' groan," was the reply.
Rhody leaned forward with a frown that was almost tragic in its
heaviness, and spoke in a deep, unnatural tone that added immensely to
the emphasis of her words. "'Oman, lemme tell you: I done it, an' I'm
glad I done it; an' you'll be glad I done it; an' he'll be glad I done
it." Patsy was drying the dish-pan with a towel, but suspended
operations the better to hear what Rhody had to say. "Dey done got it
fixt up fer ol' Silas ter j'ine in wid de 'Publican Party. He gwineter
j'ine so he kin fin' out all der doin's, an' all der comin's an' der
gwines, so he kin tell de yuthers."
"Huh! Oh, yes--yes, yes, yes! Oh, yes! We er fools; we ain't got no
sense!" cackled Patsy viciously.
"He des gwineter make out he's a 'Publican," Rhody went on; "dey got it
all planned. He gwineter j'ine de Nunion League, an' git all de names.
Dey talk 'bout it, Sis' Patsy, right befo' my face an' eyes. Dey mus'
take me fer a start-natchel fool."
"Dey does--dey does!" cried Patsy; "dey takes us all fer fools. But
won't dey be a wakin' up when de time come?"
Then and there was given the death-blow to Silas Tomlin's ambition to
become a Republican politician. The Rev. Jeremiah was apprised of the
plan, which so far as Rhody was concerned, was a pure invention. Word
went round, and when Silas put in his application to become a member of
the Union League, he was informed that orders had come from Atlanta that
no more members were to be enrolled.
When Rhody went out into the street, after her talk with Patsy, a
passer-by would have said that her actions were very queer. She leaned
against the fence and went into convulsions of silent laughter. "Oh, I
wish I wuz some'rs whar I could holler," she said aloud between gasps.
"He calls her 'Pidgin!' Pidgin! Ef she's a pidgin, I'd like ter know
what gone wid de cranes!"
She recurred to this name some weeks afterward, when the Rev. Jeremiah
informed her confidentially that his wife had discovered Silas Tomlin's
plan to unearth the secrets of the Union League. Rhody's comment
somewhat surprised the Rev. Jeremiah. "I allers thought," she said with
a laugh, "dat Pidgin had sump'n else in her craw 'sides corn."
Rhody waited in the kitchen that night until Paul returned, and then she
went to bed. Silas and his son were up earlier than usual the next
morning, but they found breakfast ready and waiting. The attitude of
father and son toward each other was constrained and reserved. Silas
felt that he must certainly say something to Paul about Eugenia
Claiborne. He hardly knew how to begin, but at last he plunged into the
subject with the same shivering sense of fear displayed by a small boy
who is about to jump into a pond of cold water--dreading it, and yet
determined to take a header.
"I hear, Paul," he began, "that you are very attentive to Eugenia
Claiborne."
"I call on her occasionally," said Paul. "She is a very agreeable young
lady." He spoke coolly, but the blood mounted to his face.
"So I hear--so I hear," remarked Silas in a business-like way. "Still, I
hope you won't carry matters too far."
"What do you mean?" Paul inquired.
"I wish I could go into particulars; I wish I could tell you exactly
what I mean, but I can't," said Silas. "All I can say is that it would
be impossible for you to marry the young woman. My Lord!" he exclaimed,
as he saw Paul close his jaws together. "Ain't there no other woman in
the world?"
"Do you know anything against the young lady's character?" the son
asked.
"Nothing, absolutely nothing," was the response.
"Well," said Paul, "I hadn't considered the question of marriage at all,
but since you've brought the subject up, we may as well discuss it. You
say it will be impossible for me to marry this young lady, and you
refuse to tell me why. Don't you think I am old enough to be trusted?"
"Why, certainly, Paul--of course; but there are some things--" Silas
paused, and caught his breath, and then went on. "Honestly, Paul, if I
could tell you, I would; I'd be glad to tell you; but this is a matter
in which you will have to depend on my judgment. Can't you trust me?"
"Just as far as you can trust me, but no farther," was the reply. "I'm
not a child. In a few months I'll be of age. But if I were only ten
years old, and knew the young lady as well as I know her now, you
couldn't turn me against her by insinuations." He rose, shook himself,
walked the length of the room and back again, and stood close to his
father. "You've already settled the question of marriage. I asked you
last night about the report that you intended to act with the radicals,
and you refused to give me a direct answer. That means that the report
is true. Do you suppose that Eugenia Claiborne, or any other decent
woman would marry the son of a scalawag?" he asked with a voice full of
passion. "Why, she'd spit in his face, and I wouldn't blame her."
The young man went out, leaving Silas sitting at the table. "Lord! I
hate to hurt him, but he'd better be dead than to marry that girl."
Rhody, who was standing in the entryway leading from the dining-room to
the kitchen, and who had overheard every word that passed between father
and son, entered the room at this moment, exclaiming:
"Well, you des ez well call 'im dead den, kaze marry her he will, an' I
don't blame 'im; an' mo'n dat I'll he'p 'im all I can."
"You don't know what you are talking about," said Silas, wiping his
lips, which were as dry as a bone.
"Maybe I does, an' maybe I don't," replied Rhody. "But what I does know,
I knows des ez good ez anybody. You say dat boy sha'n't marry de gal;
but how come you courtin' de mammy?"
"Doing what?" cried Silas, pushing his chair back from the table.
"Courtin' de mammy," answered Rhody, in a loud voice. "You wuz dar las'
night, an' fer all I know you wuz dar de night befo', an' de night 'fo'
dat. You may fool some folks, but you can't fool me."
"Courting! Why you blasted idiot! I went to see her on business."
Rhody laughed so heartily that few would have detected the mockery in
it. "Business! Yasser; it's business, an' mighty funny business. Well,
ef you kin git her, you take her. Ef she don't lead you a dance, I ain't
name Rhody."
"I believe you've lost what little sense you used to have," said Silas
with angry contempt.
"I notice dat nobody roun' here ain't foun' it," remarked Rhody,
retiring to the kitchen with a waiter full of dishes.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
_The Knights of the White Camellia_
Matters have changed greatly since those days, and all for the better.
The people of the whole country understand one another, and there is no
longer any sectional prejudice for the politicians to feed and grow fat
upon. But in the days of reconstruction everything was at white heat,
and every episode and every development appeared to be calculated to add
to the excitement. In all this, Shady Dale had as large a share as any
other community. The whites had witnessed many political outrages that
seemed to have for their object the renewal of armed resistance. And it
is impossible, even at this late day, for any impartial person to read
the debates in the Federal Congress during the years of 1867-68 without
realising the awful fact that the prime movers in the reconstruction
scheme (if not the men who acted as their instruments and tools) were
intent on stirring up a new revolution in the hope that the negroes
might be prevailed upon to sack cities and towns, and destroy the white
population. This is the only reasonable inference; no other conceivable
conclusion can explain the wild and whirling words that were uttered in
these debates: unless, indeed, some charitable investigator shall
establish the fact that the radical leaders were suffering from a sort
of contagious dementia.
It is all over and gone, but it is necessary to recall the facts in
order to explain the passionate and blind resistance of the whites of
the South and their hatred of everything that bore the name or earmarks
of Republicanism. Shady Dale, in common with other communities, had
witnessed the assembling of a convention to frame a new constitution for
the State. This body was well named the mongrel convention. It was made
up of political adventurers from Maine, Vermont, and other Northern
States, and boasted of a majority composed of ignorant negroes and
criminals. One of the most prominent members had served a term in a
Northern penitentiary. The real leaders, the men in whose wisdom and
conservatism the whites had confidence, were disqualified from holding
office by the terms of the reconstruction acts, and the convention
emphasised and adopted the policy of the radical leaders in
Washington--a policy that was deliberately conceived for the purpose of
placing the governments of the Southern States in the hands of ignorant
negroes controlled by men who had no interest whatever in the welfare of
the people.