Gabriel Tolliver Part 23

Paul was lying on the wide lounge that was one of the features of the library. His eyes were closed, and his Aunt f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y could sit at his head, Rhody could sit at his feet.

"You wanted to speak to Paul," suggested Miss f.a.n.n.y.

"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 f.a.n.n.y.

"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 f.a.n.n.y, 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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 f.a.n.n.y laughed, but Rhody was perfectly serious. "Miss f.a.n.n.y," 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 f.a.n.n.y.

"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 f.a.n.n.y, as the negro woman started out.

"I dunner how anybody kin have pleasin' drams ef dey sleep in de same lot wid Ma.r.s.e 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 n.i.g.g.e.rs 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 pa.s.sel er fryin'-size chickens. But dey'll fin'

out better, an' den--Ah-h-h!" This last exclamation was a hoa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.ser-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 att.i.tude 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.