One Saturday afternoon in the spring of 1876, as Farmer Joe-Bob Grissom
was on his way to Hillsborough for the purpose of hearing the news
and having an evening’s chat with his town acquaintances,—as was his
invariable custom at the close of the week,—he saw, as he passed the old
Bascom Place, an old gentleman and a young lady walking slowly along the
road. The old gentleman was tall and thin, and had silvery white hair.
He wore a high-crowned, wide-brimmed felt hat, and his clothes, though
neat, were too glossy to be new. The young lady was just developing into
womanhood. She had a striking face and figure. Her eyes were large and
brilliantly black; her hair, escaping from under her straw hat with its
scarlet ribbons, fell in dusky masses to her waist.
The two walked slowly, and occasionally they paused while the old
gentleman pointed in various directions with his cane, as though
impressing on the mind of his companion the whereabouts of certain
interesting landmarks. They were followed at a little distance by a
negro, who carried across his arm a light wrap which seemed to be a part
of the outfit of the young lady.
As Farmer Joe-Bob Grissom passed the two, he bowed and tipped his hat by
way of salutation. The old gentleman raised his hat and bowed with great
courtliness, and the young lady nodded her head and smiled pleasantly at
him. Farmer Joe-Bob was old enough to be grizzly, but the smile stirred
him. It seemed to be a direct challenge to his memory. Where had he
seen the young lady before? Where had he met the old gentleman? He was
puzzled to such an extent that he paid no attention to the negro man, who
touched his hat and bowed politely as the farmer passed—a fact that made
the negro wonder a little; for day in and out he had known Mr. Joe-Bob
Grissom nearly forty years, and never before had that worthy citizen
failed to respond with a cordial “Howdy” when the negro took off his hat.
Farmer Joe-Bob Grissom walked on towards town, which was not far, and
the old gentleman and the young lady walked slowly along the hedge of
Cherokee roses that ran around the old Bascom Place, while the negro
followed at a respectful distance. Once they paused, and the old
gentleman rubbed his eyes with a hand that trembled a little.
“Why, darling!” he exclaimed in a tone of mingled grief and astonishment,
“they have cut it down.”
“Cut what down, father?”
“Why, the weeping-willow. Don’t you remember it, daughter? It stood in
the middle of the field yonder. It was a noble tree. Well, well, well!
What next, I wonder?”
“I do not remember it, father; I have so much to”—
“Yes, yes,” the old gentleman interrupted. “Of course you couldn’t
remember. The place has been so changed that I seem to have forgotten it
myself. It has been turned topsy-turvy; it has been ruined—ruined!”
He leaned on his cane, and with quivering lips and moist eyes looked
through the green perspective of the park, and over the fertile fields
and meadows.
“Ruined!” exclaimed the young lady. “How can you say so, father? I never
saw a more beautiful place. It would make a lovely picture.”
“And they have ruined the house, too. The whole roof has been changed.”
The old man pulled his hat down over his eyes, his hand trembling more
than ever. “Let us turn back, Mildred,” he said after a while. “The sight
of all this frets and worries me more than I thought it would.”
“They say,” said the daughter, “that the gentleman who owns the place has
made a good deal of money.”
“Yes,” replied the father, “I suppose so—I suppose so. Yes, so I have
heard. A great many people are making money now who never made it
before—a great many.”
“I wish they would tell us the secret,” said the young lady, laughing a
little.
“There is no secret about it,” said the old gentleman; “none whatever.
To make money you must be mean and niggardly yourself, and then employ
others to be mean and niggardly for you.”
“Oh, it is not always so, father,” the young girl exclaimed.
“It _was_ not always so, my daughter. There _was_ a time when one could
make money and remain a gentleman; but that was many years ago.”
The young lady was apparently not anxious to continue the argument, for
she lightly turned the conversation into a more agreeable channel; and so
the two, still followed by the negro, made their way through the shaded
streets of the town.
That evening, when Mr. Joe-Bob Grissom, after making some little
purchases about town, went to the hotel, which he persisted in calling a
tavern, he found Major Jimmy Bass engaged in a hot political discussion
with a crowd which included a number of the townspeople, as well as a
sprinkling of commercial travelers. Major Jimmy was one of the ancient
and venerable landmarks of that region. He had once been an active
politician, and had been engaged in political discussion for forty years
or more. Old and fat as he was, he knew how to talk, and nothing pleased
him more than to get hold of a stranger when a crowd of sympathetic
fellow-citizens, young and old, was present to applaud the points he made.
Whenever Mr. Joe-Bob Grissom appeared in the veranda of the hotel he
made it a point to shake hands with every person present, friend and
stranger alike. His politeness was a trifle elaborate, but it was genuine.
“Why, howdy, Joe-Bob, howdy!” exclaimed Major Bass with effusion. “You
seem to turn up at the right time, like the spangled man in the circus.
I’m glad you’ve come, an’ ef I’d ’a’ had my way you’d ’a’ come sooner,
bekaze you’re jest a little too late fer to see me slap the argyments
onto some of these here travelin’ drummers. They are gone now,” the major
continued, with a sweeping gesture of his right arm. “They are gone, but
I wisht mightily you’d ’a’ been here. New things is mortal nice, I know;
but when these new-issue chaps set up to out-talk men that’s old enough
to be their grand-daddy, it does me a sight of good fer to see ’em took
down a peg er two.”
As soon as he could get in a word edgewise, farmer Joe-Bob Grissom
attempted to turn the conversation in a direction calculated to satisfy
his curiosity.
“Major,” he said in his deliberate way, “what’s this I see out yonder at
the old Bascom Place?”
“The Lord only knows, Joe-Bob. What might be the complexion, er yet the
character, of it?”
“Well,” said Mr. Grissom, “as I was makin’ to’rds town a little while
ago, I seen some folks that don’t look like they b’long ’roun’ here. One
of ’em was a old man, an’ t’ other one was a young gal, an’ a nigger man
was a-follerin’ of ’em up—an’, ef I make no mistakes, the nigger man was
your old Jess. I didn’t look close at the nigger, but arter I’d passed
him it come to me that it wa’n’t nobody on the topside of the roun’ worl’
but Jess.”
“Why, bless your life an’ soul!” exclaimed Major Bass, giving farmer
Joe-Bob a neighborly nudge, “don’t you know who them folks was? Well,
well! Where’s your mind? Why, that was old Briscoe Bascom an’ his
daughter.”
“I say it!” exclaimed farmer Joe-Bob, hitching his chair closer to the
major.
“Yes, sir,” said the major, “that’s who it was. Why, where on earth have
you been? The old Judge drapped in on the town some weeks ago, an’ he’s
been here ever sence. He’s been here long enough for the gal to make up a
school. Lord, Lord! What a big swing the world’s in! High on one side,
high on t’ other, an’ the old cat a-dyin, in the middle! Why, bless your
heart, Joe-Bob! I’ve seed the time when ef old Judge Briscoe Bascom jest
so much as bowed to me I’d feel proud fer a week. An’ now look at ’im! Ef
I knowed I’d be took off wi’ the dropsy the nex’ minute, I wouldn’t swap
places wi’ the poor old creetur.”
“But what is old Jess a-doin’ doggin’ ’long arter ’em that a-way?”
inquired Mr. Grissom, knitting his shaggy eyebrows.
“That’s what pesters me,” exclaimed the major. “Ef niggers was
ree-sponsible fer what they done, it would be wuss than what it is. Now
you take Jesse: you needn’t tell me that nigger ain’t got sense; yit what
does he do? You seen ’im wi’ your own eyes. Why, sir,” continued the
major, growing more emphatic, “I bought that nigger from Judge Bascom’s
cousin when he wa’n’t nothin’ but a youngster, an’ I took him home an’
raised him up right in the house,—yes, sir, right in the house,—an’ he’s
been a-hangin’ ’roun’ me off an’ on, gittin’ his vittles, his clozes, an’
his lodgin’. Yit, look at him now! I wisht I may die dead ef that nigger
didn’t hitch onto old Judge Bascom the minute he landed in town. Yes,
sir! I’m a-tellin’ you no lie. It’s a clean, naked fact. That nigger quit
me an’ went an’ took up wi’ the old judge.”
“Well,” said Mr. Grissom, stroking his unshorn face, “you know what the
sayin’ is: Niggers ’ll be niggers even ef you whitewash ’em twice a week.”
“Yes,” remarked the major thoughtfully; “I hope to goodness they’ve got
souls, but I misdoubt it. Lord, yes, I misdoubt it mightily.”