When the loungers began to disperse, some of them going home, and others going in to supper in response to the tavern bell, Mr. Silas Tomlin called to Lawyer Tidwell, and the two walked along together, their homes lying in the same direction.

"Gus," said Silas, somewhat nervously, "I want to put a case to you.

It's purely imaginary, and has probably never happened in the history of the world."

"You mean what we lawyers call a hypothetical case," remarked Mr.

Tidwell, in a tone that suggested a s.p.a.cious and a tolerant mind.

"Precisely," replied Mr. Silas Tomlin, with some eagerness. "I was readin' a tale in an old copy of _Blackwood's Magazine_ the other day, an' the whole business turned on just such a case. The sum and substance of it was about this: A man marries a woman and they get along together all right for awhile. Then, all of a sudden she takes a mortal dislike to the man, screams like mad when he goes about her, and kicks up generally when his name is mentioned. He, being a man of some spirit, and rather touchy at best, finally leaves her in disgust. Finally her folks send him word that she is dead. On the strength of that information, he marries again, after so long a time. All goes well for eighteen or twenty years, and then suddenly the first wife turns up.

Now what, in law, is the man's status? Where does he stand? Is this woman really his wife?"

"Why, certainly," replied Mr. Tidwell. "His second marriage is no marriage at all. The issue of such a marriage is illegitimate."

"That's just what I thought," commented Silas Tomlin. "But in the tale, when the woman comes back, and puts in her claim, the judge flings her case out of court."

"That was in England," Mr. Tidwell suggested.

"Or Scotland--I forget which," Silas Tomlin replied.

"Well, it isn't the law over here," Mr. Tidwell declared confidently.

They walked on a little way, when the lawyer suddenly turned to Silas and said: "Mr. Tomlin, will you fetch that magazine in to-morrow? I want to see the ground on which the woman's case was thrown out. It's interesting, even if it is all fiction. Perhaps there was some technicality."

"All right, Gus; I'll fetch it in to-morrow."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

_Silas Tomlin Finds Trouble_

When Silas Tomlin reached home, he found his son reading a book. No word of salutation pa.s.sed between them; Paul simply changed his position in the chair, and Silas grunted. They had no confidences, and they seemed to have nothing in common. As a matter of fact, however, Silas was very fond of this son, proud of his appearance--the lad was as neat as a pin, and fairly well-favoured,--and proud of his love for books. Unhappily, Silas was never able to show his affection and his fair-haired son never knew to his dying day how large a place he occupied in his father's heart. Miserly Silas was with money, but his love for his son was boundless. It destroyed or excluded every other sentiment or emotion that was in conflict with it. His miserliness was for his son's sake, and he never put away a dollar without a feeling of exultation; he rejoiced in the fact that it would enable his son to live more comfortably than his father had cared to live. Silas loved money, not for its own sake, but for the sake of his son.

Mrs. Absalom would have laughed at such a statement. The social structure of the Southern people, and the habits and traditions based thereon, were of such a character that a great majority could not be brought to believe that it was possible for parsimony to exist side by side with any of the finer feelings. All the conditions and circ.u.mstances, the ability to command leisure, the very climate itself, promoted hospitality, generosity, open-handedness, and that fine spirit of lavishness that seeks at any cost to give pleasure to others. Popular opinion, therefore, looked with a cold and suspicious eye on all manifestations of selfishness.

But Silas Tomlin's parsimony, his stinginess, had no selfish basis. He was saving not for himself, but for his son, in whom all his affections and all his ambitions were centered. He had reared Paul tenderly without displaying any tenderness, and if the son had speculated at all in regard to the various liberties he had been allowed, or the indulgent methods that had been employed in his bringing up, he would have traced them to the carelessness and indifference of his father, rather than to the ardent affection that burned unseen and unmarked in Silas's bosom.

He had never, by word or act, intentionally wounded the feelings of his son; he had never thrown himself in the path of Paul's wishes. There was a feeling in Shady Dale that Silas was permitting his son to go to the dogs; whereas, as a matter of fact, no detective was ever more alert.

Without seeming to do so, he had kept an eye on all Paul's comings and goings. When the lad's desires were reasonable, they were promptly gratified; when they were unreasonable, their gratification was postponed until they were forgotten. Books Paul had in abundance. Half of the large library of Meredith Tomlin had fallen to Silas, and the other half to Pulaski Tomlin, and the lad had free access to all.

Paul was very fond of his Uncle Pulaski and his Aunt f.a.n.n.y, and he was far more familiar with these two than he was with his father. His a.s.sociation with his uncle and aunt was in the nature of a liberal education. It was Pulaski Tomlin who really formed Paul's character, who gathered together all the elements of good that are native to the mind of a sensitive lad, and moulded them until they were strong enough to outweigh and overwhelm the impulses of evil that are also native to the growing mind. Thus it fell out that Paul was a young man to be admired and loved by all who find modest merit pleasing.

When his father arrived at home on that particular evening, as has been noted, Paul was reading a book. He changed his position, but said nothing. After awhile, however, he felt something was wrong. His father, instead of seating himself at the table, and consulting his note-book, walked up and down the floor.

"What is wrong? Are you ill?" Paul asked after awhile.

"No, son; I am as well in body as ever I was; but I'm greatly troubled.

I wish to heaven I could go back to the beginning, and tell you all about it; but I can't--I just can't."

Paul also had his troubles, and he regarded his father gloomily enough.

"Why can't you tell me?" he asked, somewhat impatiently. "But I needn't ask you that; you never tell me anything. I heard something to-day that made me ashamed."

"Ashamed, Paul?" gasped his father.

"Yes--ashamed. And if it is true, I am going away from here and never show my face again."

Silas fell, rather than leaned, against the mantel-piece, his face ghastly white. He tried to say, "What did you hear, Paul?" His lips moved, but no sound issued from his throat.

"Two or three persons told me to-day," Paul went on, "that they had heard of your intention to join the radicals, and run for the legislature. I told each and every one of them that it was an infernal lie; but I don't know whether it is a lie or not. If it isn't I'll leave here."

Silas Tomlin's heart had been in his throat, as the saying is, but he gulped it down again and smiled faintly. If this was all Paul had heard, well and good. Compared with some other things, it was a mere matter of moonshine. Paul took up his book again, but he turned the leaves rapidly, and it was plain that he was impatiently waiting for further information.

At last Silas spoke: "All the truth in that report, Paul, is this--It has been suggested to me that it would be better for the whites here if some one who sympathises with their plans, and understands their interests, should pretend to become a Republican, and make the race for the legislature. This is what some of our best men think."

"What do you mean by our best men, father?"

"Why, I don't know that I am at liberty to mention names even to you, Paul," said Silas, who had no notion of being driven into a corner. "And then, on the other hand, the white Republicans are not as fond of the negroes as they pretend to be. And if they can't get some native-born white man to run, who do you reckon they'll have to put up as a candidate? Why, old Jerry, Pulaski's man of all work."

"Well, what of it?" Paul asked with rising indignation. "Jerry is a great deal better than any white man who puts himself on an equality with him."

"Have you met Mr. Hotchkiss?" asked Silas. "He seems to be a very clever man."

"No, I haven't met him and I don't want to meet him." Paul rose from his seat, and stood facing his father. He was a likely-looking young man, tall and slim, but broad-shouldered. He had the delicate pink complexion that belongs to fair-haired persons. "This is a question, father, that can't be discussed between us. You beat about the bush in such a way as to compel me to believe the reports I have heard are true. Well, you can do as you like; I'll not presume to dictate to you. You may disgrace yourself, but you sha'n't disgrace me."

With that, the high-strung young fellow seized his hat, and flung out of the house, carrying his book with him. He shut the door after him with a bang, as he went out, demonstrating that he was full of the heroic indignation that only young blood can kindle.

Silas Tomlin sank into a chair, as he heard the street-door slammed.

"Disgrace him! My G.o.d! I've already disgraced him, and when he finds it out he'll hate me. Oh, Lord!" If the man's fountain of tears had not been dried up years before, he would have wept scalding ones.

An inner door opened and a negro woman peeped in. Seeing no one but Silas, she cried out indignantly, "Who dat slammin' dat front do'?

You'll break eve'y gla.s.s in de house, an' half de crock'ry-ware in de dinin'-room, an' den you'll say I done it."

"It was Paul, Rhody; he was angry about something."

The negro woman gave an indignant snort. "I don't blame 'im--I don't blame 'im; not one bit. Ain't I been tellin' you how 'twould be? Ain't I been tellin' you dat you'd run 'im off wid yo' scrimpin' an' pinchin'?

But 'tain't dat dat run'd 'im off. It's sump'n wuss'n dat. He ain't never done dat away befo'. Ef dat boy ain't had de patience er Job, he'd 'a' been gone fum here long ago."

Rhody came into the room where she could look Silas in the eyes. He regarded her with curiosity, which appeared to be the only emotion left him. Certainly he had never seen his cook and aforetime slave in such a tantrum. What would she say and do next?

"Home!" she exclaimed in a loud voice. Then she turned around and deliberately inspected the room as if she had never seen it before. "An'

so dis is what you call Home--you, wid all yo' money hid away in holes in de groun'! Dis de kinder place you fix up fer dat boy, an' him de onliest one you got! Well!" Rhody's indignation could only be accounted for on the ground that she had overheard the whole conversation between father and son.

"Why, you never said anything about it before," remarked Silas Tomlin.

"No, I didn't, an' I wouldn't say it now, ef dat boy hadn't 'a' foun'

out fer hisse'f what kinder daddy he got."

"Blast your black hide! I'll knock your brains out if you talk that way to me!" exclaimed Silas Tomlin, white with anger.