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.