Roxana Insists Upon Reform.
The true Southern watermelon is a boon apart, and not to be mentioned
with commoner things. It is chief of this world's luxuries, king by the
grace of God over all the fruits of the earth. When one has tasted it,
he knows what the angels eat. It was not a Southern watermelon that Eve
took: we know it because she repented.--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar.
About the time that Wilson was bowing the committee out, Pembroke Howard
was entering the next house to report. He found the old Judge sitting
grim and straight in his chair, waiting.
"Well, Howard--the news?"
"The best in the world."
"Accepts, does he?" and the light of battle gleamed joyously in the
Judge's eye.
"Accepts? Why, he jumped at it."
"Did, did he? Now that's fine--that's very fine. I like that. When is it
to be?"
"Now! Straight off! To-night! An admirable fellow--admirable!"
"Admirable? He's a darling! Why, it's an honor as well as a pleasure to
stand up before such a man. Come--off with you! Go and arrange
everything--and give him my heartiest compliments. A rare fellow,
indeed; an admirable fellow, as you have said!"
Howard hurried away, saying--
"I'll have him in the vacant stretch between Wilson's and the haunted
house within the hour, and I'll bring my own pistols."
Judge Driscoll began to walk the floor in a state of pleased excitement;
but presently he stopped, and began to think--began to think of Tom.
Twice he moved toward the secretary, and twice he turned away again; but
finally he said--
"This may be my last night in the world--I must not take the chance. He
is worthless and unworthy, but it is largely my fault. He was intrusted
to me by my brother on his dying bed, and I have indulged him to his
hurt, instead of training him up severely, and making a man of him. I
have violated my trust, and I must not add the sin of desertion to that.
I have forgiven him once already, and would subject him to a long and
hard trial before forgiving him again, if I could live; but I must not
run that risk. No, I must restore the will. But if I survive the duel, I
will hide it away, and he will not know, and I will not tell him until
he reforms, and I see that his reformation is going to be permanent."
He re-drew the will, and his ostensible nephew was heir to a fortune
again. As he was finishing his task, Tom, wearied with another brooding
tramp, entered the house and went tiptoeing past the sitting-room door.
He glanced in, and hurried on, for the sight of his uncle had nothing
but terrors for him to-night. But his uncle was writing! That was
unusual at this late hour. What could he be writing? A chill of anxiety
settled down upon Tom's heart. Did that writing concern him? He was
afraid so. He reflected that when ill luck begins, it does not come in
sprinkles, but in showers. He said he would get a glimpse of that
document or know the reason why. He heard some one coming, and stepped
out of sight and hearing. It was Pembroke Howard. What could be
hatching?
Howard said, with great satisfaction:
"Everything's right and ready. He's gone to the battle-ground with his
second and the surgeon--also with his brother. I've arranged it all with
Wilson--Wilson's his second. We are to have three shots apiece."
"Good! How is the moon?"
"Bright as day, nearly. Perfect, for the distance--fifteen yards. No
wind--not a breath; hot and still."
"All good; all first-rate. Here, Pembroke, read this, and witness it."
Pembroke read and witnessed the will, then gave the old man's hand a
hearty shake and said:
"Now that's right, York--but I knew you would do it. You couldn't leave
that poor chap to fight along without means or profession, with certain
defeat before him, and I knew you wouldn't, for his father's sake if not
for his own."
"For his dead father's sake I couldn't, I know; for poor Percy--but you
know what Percy was to me. But mind--Tom is not to know of this unless I
fall to-night."
"I understand. I'll keep the secret."
The Judge put the will away, and the two started for the battle-ground.
In another minute the will was in Tom's hands. His misery vanished, his
feelings underwent a tremendous revulsion. He put the will carefully
back in its place, and spread his mouth and swung his hat once, twice,
three times around his head, in imitation of three rousing huzzas, no
sound issuing from his lips. He fell to communing with himself excitedly
and joyously, but every now and then he let off another volley of dumb
hurrahs.
He said to himself: "I've got the fortune again, but I'll not let on
that I know about it. And this time I'm going to hang on to it. I take
no more risks. I'll gamble no more, I'll drink no more, because--well,
because I'll not go where there is any of that sort of thing going on,
again. It's the sure way, and the only sure way; I might have thought of
that sooner--well, yes, if I had wanted to. But now--dear me, I've had a
scare this time, and I'll take no more chances. Not a single chance
more. Land! I persuaded myself this evening that I could fetch him
around without any great amount of effort, but I've been getting more
and more heavy-hearted and doubtful straight along, ever since. If he
tells me about this thing, all right; but if he doesn't, I sha'n't let
on. I--well, I'd like to tell Pudd'nhead Wilson, but--no, I'll think
about that; perhaps I won't." He whirled off another dead huzza, and
said, "I'm reformed, and this time I'll stay so, sure!"
He was about to close with a final grand silent demonstration, when he
suddenly recollected that Wilson had put it out of his power to pawn or
sell the Indian knife, and that he was once more in awful peril of
exposure by his creditors for that reason. His joy collapsed utterly,
and he turned away and moped toward the door moaning and lamenting over
the bitterness of his luck. He dragged himself up-stairs, and brooded in
his room a long time disconsolate and forlorn, with Luigi's Indian knife
for a text. At last he sighed and said:
"When I supposed these stones were glass and this ivory bone, the thing
hadn't any interest for me because it hadn't any value, and couldn't
help me out of my trouble. But now--why, now it is full of interest;
yes, and of a sort to break a body's heart. It's a bag of gold that has
turned to dirt and ashes in my hands. It could save me, and save me so
easily, and yet I've got to go to ruin. It's like drowning with a
life-preserver in my reach. All the hard luck comes to me, and all the
good luck goes to other people--Pudd'nhead Wilson, for instance; even
his career has got a sort of a little start at last, and what has he
done to deserve it, I should like to know? Yes, he has opened his own
road, but he isn't content with that, but must block mine. It's a
sordid, selfish world, and I wish I was out of it." He allowed the light
of the candle to play upon the jewels of the sheath, but the flashings
and sparklings had no charm for his eye; they were only just so many
pangs to his heart. "I must not say anything to Roxy about this thing,"
he said, "she is too daring. She would be for digging these stones out
and selling them, and then--why, she would be arrested and the stones
traced, and then--" The thought made him quake, and he hid the knife
away, trembling all over and glancing furtively about, like a criminal
who fancies that the accuser is already at hand.
Should he try to sleep? Oh, no, sleep was not for him; his trouble was
too haunting, too afflicting for that. He must have somebody to mourn
with. He would carry his despair to Roxy.
He had heard several distant gunshots, but that sort of thing was not
uncommon, and they had made no impression upon him. He went out at the
back door, and turned westward. He passed Wilson's house and proceeded
along the lane, and presently saw several figures approaching Wilson's
place through the vacant lots. These were the duelists returning from
the fight; he thought he recognized them, but as he had no desire for
white people's company, he stooped down behind the fence until they were
out of his way.
Roxy was feeling fine. She said:
"Whah was you, child? Warn't you in it?"
"In what?"
"In de duel."
"Duel? Has there been a duel?"
"'Co'se dey has. De ole Jedge has be'n havin' a duel wid one o' dem
twins."
"Great Scott!" Then he added to himself: "That's what made him re-make
the will; he thought he might get killed, and it softened him toward me.
And that's what he and Howard were so busy about.... Oh dear, if the
twin had only killed him, I should be out of my--"
"What is you mumblin' bout, Chambers? Whah was you? Didn't you know dey
was gwyne to be a duel?"
"No, I didn't. The old man tried to get me to fight one with Count
Luigi, but he didn't succeed, so I reckon he concluded to patch up the
family honor himself."
He laughed at the idea, and went rambling on with a detailed account of
his talk with the Judge, and how shocked and ashamed the Judge was to
find that he had a coward in his family. He glanced up at last, and got
a shock himself. Roxana's bosom was heaving with suppressed passion, and
she was glowering down upon him with measureless contempt written in her
face.
"En you refuse' to fight a man dat kicked you, 'stid o' jumpin' at de
chance! En you ain't got no mo' feelin' den to come en tell me, dat
fetched sich a po' low-down ornery rabbit into de worl'! Pah! it make me
sick! It's de nigger in you, dat's what it is. Thirty-one parts o' you
is white, en on'y one part nigger, en dat po' little one part is yo'
soul. Tain't wuth savin'; tain't wuth totin' out on a shovel en throwin'
in de gutter. You has disgraced yo' birth. What would yo' pa think o'
you? It's enough to make him turn in his grave."
The last three sentences stung Tom into a fury, and he said to himself
that if his father were only alive and in reach of assassination his
mother would soon find that he had a very clear notion of the size of
his indebtedness to that man, and was willing to pay it up in full, and
would do it too, even at risk of his life; but he kept this thought to
himself; that was safest in his mother's present state.
"Whatever has come o' yo' Essex blood? Dat's what I can't understan'. En
it ain't on'y jist Essex blood dat's in you, not by a long sight--'deed
it ain't! My great-great-great-gran'father en yo'
great-great-great-great-gran'father was Ole Cap'n John Smith, de highest
blood dat Ole Virginny ever turned out, en his great-great-gran'mother
or somers along back dah, was Pocahontas de Injun queen, en her husbun'
was a nigger king outen Africa--en yit here you is, a slinkin' outen a
duel en disgracin' our whole line like a ornery low-down hound! Yes,
it's de nigger in you!"
She sat down on her candle-box and fell into a reverie. Tom did not
disturb her; he sometimes lacked prudence, but it was not in
circumstances of this kind, Roxana's storm went gradually down, but it
died hard, and even when it seemed to be quite gone, it would now and
then break out in a distant rumble, so to speak, in the form of muttered
ejaculations. One of these was, "Ain't nigger enough in him to show in
his finger-nails, en dat takes mighty little--yit dey's enough to paint
his soul."
Presently she muttered. "Yassir, enough to paint a whole thimbleful of
'em." At last her ramblings ceased altogether, and her countenance began
to clear--a welcome sign to Tom, who had learned her moods, and knew she
was on the threshold of good-humor, now. He noticed that from time to
time she unconsciously carried her finger to the end of her nose. He
looked closer and said:
"Why, mammy, the end of your nose is skinned. How did that come?"
She sent out the sort of whole-hearted peal of laughter which God had
vouchsafed in its perfection to none but the happy angels in heaven and
the bruised and broken black slave on the earth, and said:
"Dad fetch dat duel, I be'n in it myself."
"Gracious! did a bullet do that?"
"Yassir, you bet it did!"
"Well, I declare! Why, how did that happen?"
"Happened dis-away. I 'uz a-sett'n' here kinder dozin' in de dark, en
che-bang! goes a gun, right out dah. I skips along out towards t'other
end o' de house to see what's gwyne on, en stops by de ole winder on de
side towards Pudd'nhead Wilson's house dat ain't got no sash in it,--but
dey ain't none of 'em got any sashes, fur as dat's concerned,--en I
stood dah in de dark en look out, en dar in de moonlight, right down
under me 'uz one o' de twins a-cussin'--not much, but jist a-cussin'
soft--it 'uz de brown one dat 'uz cussin', 'ca'se he 'uz hit in de
shoulder. En Doctor Claypool he 'uz a-workin' at him, en Pudd'nhead
Wilson he 'uz a-he'pin', en ole Jedge Driscoll en Pem Howard 'uz
a-standin' out yonder a little piece waitin' for 'em to git ready agin.
En treckly dey squared off en give de word, en bang-bang went de
pistols, en de twin he say, 'Ouch!'--hit him on de han' dis time,--en I
hear dat same bullet go spat! ag'in, de logs under de winder; en de nex'
time dey shoot, de twin say, 'Ouch!' ag'in, en I done it too, 'ca'se de
bullet glance' on his cheek-bone en skip up here en glance on de side o'
de winder en whiz right acrost my face en tuck de hide off'n my
nose--why, if I'd 'a' be'n jist a inch or a inch en a half furder 't
would 'a' tuck de whole nose en disfiggered me. Here's de bullet; I
hunted her up."
"Did you stand there all the time?"
"Dat's a question to ask, ain't it? What else would I do? Does I git a
chance to see a duel every day?"
"Why, you were right in range! Weren't you afraid?"
The woman gave a sniff of scorn.
"'Fraid! De Smith-Pocahontases ain't 'fraid o' nothin', let alone
bullets."
"They've got pluck enough, I suppose; what they lack is judgment. I
wouldn't have stood there."
"Nobody's accusin' you!"
"Did anybody else get hurt?"
"Yes, we all got hit 'cep' de blon' twin en de doctor en de seconds. De
Jedge didn't git hurt, but I hear Pudd'nhead say de bullet snip some o'
his ha'r off."
"'George!" said Tom to himself, "to come so near being out of my
trouble, and miss it by an inch. Oh dear, dear, he will live to find me
out and sell me to some nigger-trader yet--yes, and he would do it in a
minute." Then he said aloud, in a grave tone--
"Mother, we are in an awful fix."
Roxana caught her breath with a spasm, and said--
"Chile! What you hit a body so sudden for, like dat? What's be'n en gone
en happen'?"
"Well, there's one thing I didn't tell you. When I wouldn't fight, he
tore up the will again, and--"
Roxana's face turned a dead white, and she said--
"Now you's done!--done forever! Dat's de end. Bofe un us is gwyne to
starve to--"
"Wait and hear me through, can't you! I reckon that when he resolved to
fight, himself, he thought he might get killed and not have a chance to
forgive me any more in this life, so he made the will again, and I've
seen it, and it's all right. But--"
"Oh, thank goodness, den we's safe ag'in!--safe! en so what did you want
to come here en talk sich dreadful--"
"Hold on, I tell you, and let me finish. The swag I gathered won't half
square me up, and the first thing we know, my creditors--well, you know
what'll happen."
Roxana dropped her chin, and told her son to leave her alone--she must
think this matter out. Presently she said impressively:
"You got to go mighty keerful now, I tell you! En here's what you got to
do. He didn't git killed, en if you gives him de least reason, he'll
bust de will ag'in, en dat's de las' time, now you hear me! So--you's
got to show him what you kin do in de nex' few days. You's got to be
pison good, en let him see it; you got to do everything dat'll make him
b'lieve in you, en you got to sweeten aroun' ole Aunt Pratt, too,--she's
pow'ful strong wid de Jedge, en de bes' frien' you got. Nex', you'll go
'long away to Sent Louis, en dat'll keep him in yo' favor. Den you go en
make a bargain wid dem people. You tell 'em he ain't gwyne to live
long--en dat's de fac', too,--en tell 'em you'll pay 'em intrust, en big
intrust, too,--ten per--what you call it?"
"Ten per cent. a month?"
"Dat's it. Den you take and sell yo' truck aroun', a little at a time,
en pay de intrust. How long will it las'?"
"I think there's enough to pay the interest five or six months."
"Den you's all right. If he don't die in six months, dat don't make no
diff'rence--Providence'll provide. You's gwyne to be safe--if you
behaves." She bent an austere eye on him and added, "En you is gwyne to
behave--does you know dat?"
He laughed and said he was going to try, anyway. She did not unbend. She
said gravely:
"Tryin' ain't de thing. You's gwyne to do it. You ain't gwyne to steal a
pin--'ca'se it ain't safe no mo'; en you ain't gwyne into no bad
comp'ny--not even once, you understand; en you ain't gwyne to drink a
drop--nary single drop; en you ain't gwyne to gamble one single
gamble--not one! Dis ain't what you's gwyne to try to do, it's what
you's gwyne to do. En I'll tell you how I knows it. Dis is how. I's
gwyne to foller along to Sent Louis my own self; en you's gwyne to come
to me every day o' yo' life, en I'll look you over; en if you fails in
one single one o' dem things--jist one--I take my oath I'll come
straight down to dis town en tell de Jedge you's a nigger en a slave--en
prove it!" She paused to let her words sink home. Then she added,
"Chambers, does you b'lieve me when I says dat?"
Tom was sober enough now. There was no levity in his voice when he
answered:
"Yes, mother, I know, now, that I am reformed--and permanently.
Permanently--and beyond the reach of any human temptation."
"Den g' long home en begin!"