ACCEPTING the invitation, I presently found myself dining with Mrs.
Bivins, and listening to her remarkable flow of small-talk, while Mingo
hovered around, the embodiment of active hospitality.
"Mingo 'lowed he'd ast you up," said Mrs. Bivins, "an' I says, says I,
'Don't you be a-pesterin' the gentulmun, when you know thar's plenty er
the new-issue quality ready an' a-waitin' to pull an' haul at 'im,'
says I. Not that I begrudge the vittles--not by no means; I hope I
hain't got to that yit. But somehow er 'nother folks what hain't got no
great shakes to brag 'bout gener'ly feels sorter skittish when strange
folks draps in on 'em. Goodness knows I hain't come to that pass wher'
I begrudges the vittles that folks eats, bekaze anybody betweenst this
an' Clinton, Jones County, Georgy, 'll tell you the Sanderses wa'n't
the set to stint the'r stomachs. I was a Sanders 'fore I married, an'
when I come 'way frum pa's house hit was thes like turnin' my back on a
barbecue. Not by no means was I begrudgin' of the vittles. Says I,
'Mingo,' says I, 'ef the gentulmun is a teetotal stranger, an' nobody
else hain't got the common perliteness to ast 'im, shorely you mus' ast
'im,' says I; 'but don't go an' make no great to-do,' says I; 'bekaze
the little we got mightent be satisfactual to the gentulmun,' says I.
What we got may be little enough, an' it may be too much, but hit's
welcome."
It would be impossible to convey an idea of the emphasis which Mrs.
Bivins imposed upon her conversation. She talked rapidly, but with a
certain deliberation of manner which gave a quaint interest to
everything she said. She had thin grey hair, a prominent nose, firm
thin lips, and eyes that gave a keen and sparkling individuality to
sharp and homely features. She had evidently seen sorrow and defied it.
There was no suggestion of compromise in manner or expression. Even her
hospitality was uncompromising. I endeavoured to murmur my thanks to
Mrs. Bivins for Mingo's thoughtfulness, but her persistent conversation
drowned out such poor phrases as I could hastily frame.
"Come 'ere, Pud Hon," continued Mrs. Bivins, calling the child, and
trimming the demonstrative terms of "Pudding" and "Honey" to suit all
exigencies of affection--"come 'ere, Pud Hon, an' tell the gentulmun
howdy. Gracious me! don't be so _countrified_. He ain't a-gwine to
_bite_ you. No, sir, you won't fine no begrudgers mixed up with the
_Sanderses_. Hit useter be a _common_ sayin' in Jones, an' cle'r 'cross
into Jasper, that pa would 'a bin a rich man an' 'a owned _niggers_ if
it hadn't but 'a bin bekase he sot his head agin stintin' of his
stomach. That's what they useter say--usen't they, Mingo?"
"Dat w'at I year tell, Miss F'raishy--sho'," Mingo assented, with great
heartiness. But Mrs. Bivins's volubility would hardly wait for this
perfunctory indorsement. She talked as she arranged the dishes, and
occasionally she would hold a piece of crockery suspended in the air as
she emphasised her words. She dropped into a mortuary strain--"Poor
pa! I don't never have nuthin' extry an' I don't never see a dish er
fried chicken but what pa pops in my mind. A better man hain't never
draw'd the breath of life--that they hain't. An' he was thes as gayly
as a kitten. When we gals'd have comp'ny to dinner, pore pa he'd cut
his eye at me, an' up an' say, says he, 'Gals, this 'ere turkey's
mighty nice, yit I'm reely afeared you put too much inguns in the
stuffin. Maybe the young men don't like 'em as good as you all does;'
an' then pore pa'd drap his knife an' fork, an' laugh tell the tears
come in his eyes. Sister Prue she useter run off an' have a cry, but I
was one er the kind what wa'n't easy sot back.
"I'd 'a bin mighty glad if Pud yer had er took airter pa's famerly, but
frum the tip eend er her toe nails to the toppermust ha'r of her head
she's a Wornum. Hit ain't on'y thes a streak yer an' a stripe thar--
hit's the whole bolt. I reckon maybe you know'd ole Jedge June Wornum;
well, Jedge June he was Pud's gran'pa, an' Deely Wornum was her ma.
Maybe you might 'a seed Deely when she was a school-gal."
Cordelia Wornum! No doubt my astonishment made itself apparent, for
Mrs. Bivins bridled up promptly, and there was a clearly perceptible
note of defiance in her tone as she proceeded.
"Yes, sir-ree! _An' make no mistake!_ Deely Wornum married my son, an'
Henry Clay Bivina made 'er a good husbun', if I do have to give it out
myse'f. Yes, 'ndeed! An' yit if you'd 'a heern the rippit them Wornums
kicked up, you'd 'a thought the pore chile'd done took'n run off 'long
of a whole passel er high pirates frum somewheres er 'nother. In about
that time the ole Jedge he got sorter fibbled up, some say in his feet,
an' some say in his head; but his wife, that Em'ly Wornum, she taken on
awful. I never seen her a-gwine on myse'f; not that they was any hidin'
out 'mongst the Bivinses er the Sanderses--bless you, no! bekaze here's
what wa'n't afeared er all the Wornums in the continental State er
Georgy, not if they'd 'a mustered out under the lead er ole Nick
hisse'f, which I have my doubta if he wa'n't somewheres aroun'. I never
seen 'er, but I heern tell er how she was a-cuttin' up. You mayn't
think it, but that 'oman taken it on herse'f to call up all the niggers
on the place an' give 'em her forbiddance to go an' see the'r young
mistiss."
"Yit I lay dey tuck 'n sneak 'roun' en come anyhow, ain't dey, Miss
F'raishy?" inquired Mingo, rubbing his hands together and smiling
blandly.
"_That_ they did--_that_ they did!" was Mrs. Bivins's emphatic
response. "Niggers is niggers, but them Wornum niggers was a cut er two
'bove the common run. I'll say that, an' I'll say it on the witness
stan'. Freedom might a turned the'r heads when it come to t'other
folks, but hit didn't never turn the'r heads 'bout the'r young mistiss.
An' if Mingo here hain't done his juty 'cordin' to his lights, then I
dunner what juty is. I'll say that open an' above-board, high an' low."
The curious air of condescension which Mrs. Bivins assumed as she said
this, the tone of apology which she employed in paying this tribute to
Mingo and the Wornum negroes, formed a remarkable study. Evidently she
desired me distinctly to understand that in applauding these worthy
coloured people she was in no wise compromising her own dignity.
Thus Mrs. Bivins rattled away, pausing only long enough now and then to
deplore my lack of appetite. Meanwhile Mingo officiated around the
improvised board with gentle affability; and the little girl, bearing
strong traces of her lineage in her features--a resemblance which was
confirmed by a pretty little petulance of temper--made it convenient
now and again to convey a number of tea cakes into Mingo's hat, which
happened to be sitting near, the conveyance taking place in spite of
laughable pantomimic protests on the part of the old man, ranging from
appealing nods and grimaces to indignant frowns and gestures.
"When Deely died," Mrs. Bivins went on, waving a towel over a tempting
jar of preserves, "they wa'n't nobody but what was afeared to break it
to Emily Wornum, an' the pore chile'd done been buried too long to talk
about before her ma heern tell of it, an' then she drapped like a clap
er thunder had hit 'er. Airter so long a time, Mingo thar he taken it
'pun hisse'f to tell 'er, an' she flopped right down in 'er tracks, an'
Mingo he holp 'er into the house, an', bless your life, when he come to
he'p 'er out'n it, she was a changed 'oman. 'Twa'n't long 'fore she
taken a notion to come to my house, an' one mornin' when I was
a-washin' up dishes, I heern some un holler at the gate, an' thar sot
Mingo peerched up on the Wornum carry-all, an' of all livin' flesh, who
should be in thar but ole Emily Wornum!
"Hit's a sin to say it," continued Mrs. Bivins, smiling a dubious
little smile that was not without its serious suggestions, "but I
tightened up my apern strings, an' flung my glance aroun' tell hit
drapped on the battlin'-stick, bekaze I flared up the minnit I seen
'er, an' I says to myse'f, says I: 'If hit's a fracas youer huntin', my
lady, I lay you won't hafter put on your specs to fine it.' An' then I
says to Pud, says I--
"'Pud Hon, go in the shed-room thar, chile, an' if you hear anybody
a-hollerin' an' a-squallin', thes shet your eyeleds an' grit your teeth,
bekaze hit'll be your pore ole granny a-tryin' to git even with some er
your kin.'
"An' then I taken a cheer an' sot down by the winder. D'reckly in come
Emily Wornum, an' I wish I may die if I'd 'a know'd 'er if I'd saw 'er
anywheres else on the face er the yeth. She had this 'ere kinder
dazzled look what wimmen has airter they bin baptized in the water. I
helt my head high, but I kep' my eye on the battlin'-stick, an' if
she'd 'a made fight, I'll be boun' they'd 'a bin some ole sco'es
settled then an' thar if ole sco'es ken be settled by a frailin'. But,
bless your heart, they wa'n't never no cammer 'oman than what Emily
Wornum was; an' if you'd 'a know'd 'er, an' Mingo wa'n't here to b'ar
me out, I wish I may die if I wouldn't be afeared to tell you how ca'm
an' supjued that 'oman was, which in her young days she was a
tarrifier. She up an' says, says she--
"'Is Mizzers Bivins in?'
"'Yessum,' says I, 'she is that-away. An more 'n that, nobody don't
hafter come on this hill an' holler more 'n twicet 'thout gittin'some
kinder answer back. _Yessum!_ An' what's more, Mizzers Bivins is come
to that time er life when she's mighty proud to git calls from the
big-bugs. If I had as much perliteness, ma'am, as I is cheers, I'd ast you
to set down,' says I.
"She stood thar, she did, thes as cool as a cowcumber; but d'reckly she
ups an' says, says she--
"'Might I see my little gran'chile?' says she.
"'Oho, ma'am!' says I; 'things is come to a mighty purty pass when
quality folks has to go frum house to house a-huntin' up pore white
trash, an' a-astin' airter the'r kin. Tooby shore! tooby shore! Yessum,
a mighty purty pass,' says I."
I cannot hope to give even a faint intimation of the remarkable
dramatic fervour and earnestness of this recital, nor shall I attempt
to describe the rude eloquence of attitude and expression; but they
seemed to represent the real or fancied wrongs of a class, and to
spring from the pent-up rage of a century.
"I wa'n't lookin' fer no compermise, nuther," Mrs. Bivins continued. "I
fully spected 'er to flar' up an' fly at me; but 'stedder that, she
kep' a-stan'in' thar lookin' thes like folks does when theyer runnin'
over sump'n in the'r min'. Then her eye lit on some 'er the pictur's
what Deely had hung up on the side er the house, an' in pertic'lar one
what some 'er the Woruum niggers had fetched 'er, whar a great big dog
was a-watehin' by a little bit er baby. When she seen that, bless your
soul, she thes sunk right down on the floor, an' clincht 'er han's, an'
brung a gasp what looked like it might er bin the last, an' d'reckly
she ast, in a whisper, says she--
"'Was this my dear daughter's room?'
"Maybe you think," said Mrs. Bivins, regarding me coldly and
critically, and pressing her thin lips more firmly together, if that
could be--"maybe you think I oughter wrung my han's, an' pitied that
'oman kneelin' thar in that room whar all my trouble was born an' bred.
Some folks would 'a flopped down by 'er, an' I won't deny but what hit
come over me; but the nex' minnit hit flashed acrost me as quick an'
hot as powder how she'd 'a bin a-houndin' airter me an' my son, an'
a-treatin' us like as we'd 'a bin the offscourin's er creation, an' how
she cast off her own daughter, which Deely was as good a gal as ever
draw'd the breath er life--when all this come over me, hit seem like to
me that I couldn't keep my paws off'n 'er. I hope the Lord'll forgive
me--that I do--but if hit hadn't but 'a bin for my raisin', I'd 'a
jumped at Emily Wornum an' 'a spit in 'er face an' 'a clawed 'er eyes
out'n 'er. An' yit, with ole Nick a-tuggin' at me, I was a Christun
'nuff to thank the Lord that they was a tender place in that pore
miserbul creetur's soul-case.
"When I seen her a-kneelin' thar, with 'er year-rings a-danglin' an'
'er fine feathers a-tossin' an' a-trimblin', leetle more an' my
thoughts would 'a sot me afire. I riz an' I stood over her, an' I says,
says I--
"'Emily Wornum, whar you er huntin' the dead you oughter hunted the
livin'. What's betwix' you an' your Maker _I_ can't tell,' says I, 'but
if you git down on your face an' lick the dirt what Deely Bivins walked
on, still you won't be humble enough for to go whar _she's_ gone, nor
good enough nuther. She died right yer while you was a-traipsin' an'
a-trollopin' roun' frum pos' to pillar a-upholdin' your quality idees.
These arms helt 'er,' says I, 'an' ef hit hadn't but 'a bin for _her_,
Emily Wornum,' says I, 'I'd 'a strangled the life out'n you time your
shadder darkened my door. An' what's more,' says I, 'ef youer come to
bother airter Pud, _the make the trail of it. Thes so much as lay the
weight er your little finger on 'er,_' says I, '_an' I'll grab you by
the goozle an' t'ar your haslet out_,' says I."
O mystery of humanity! It was merely Mrs. Feratia Bivins who had been
speaking, but the voice was the voice of Tragedy. Its eyes shone; its
fangs glistened and gleamed; its hands clutched the air; its tone was
husky with suppressed fury; its rage would have stormed the barriers of
the grave. In another moment Mrs. Bivins was brushing the crumbs from
her lap, and exchanging salutations with her neighbours and
acquaintances; and a little later, leading her grandchild by the hand,
she was making her way back to the church, where the congregation had
begun to gather.