He wiped his thin lips with his lean forefinger, and stood hesitating, whereupon Mrs. Absalom remarked: "It sha'n't cost you a cent ef you'll come in. Ab'll be here purty soon ef somebody ain't been fool enough to give him his dinner. His health'll fail him long before his appet.i.te does. Show Mr. Tomlin in the parlour, Gabriel, an' I'll see about Ab's dinner; I don't want it to burn to a cracklin' before he gits it."

Silas Tomlin went into the parlour and sat down, while Gabriel stood hesitating, not knowing what to do or say. He was embarra.s.sed, and Silas Tomlin saw it. "Oh, take a seat," he said, with a show of impatience.

"What are you doing for yourself, Tolliver? You're a big boy now, and you ought to be making good money. We'll all have to work now: we'll have to buckle right down to it. The way I look at it, the man who is doing nothing is throwing money away; yes, sir, throwing it away. What does Adam Smith say? Why, he says----"

Gabriel never found out what particular statement of Adam Smith was to be thrown at his head, for at that moment, Mr. Goodlett called out from the dining-room: "Si Tomlin in there, Gabriel? Well, fetch him out here whar I live at. I ain't got no parlours for company." By the time that Gabriel had led Mr. Silas Tomlin into the dining-room, Mr. Goodlett had a plate of victuals carrying it to the kitchen; and he remarked as he went along, "I got nuther parlours nor dinin'-rooms: fetch him out here to the kitchen whar we both b'long at."

If Silas Tomlin objected to this arrangement, he gave no sign; he followed without a word, Mr. Goodlett placed his plate on the table where the dishes were washed, and dropped his hat on the floor beside him, and began to attack his dinner most vigorously. Believing, evidently, that ordinary politeness would be wasted here, Silas entered at once on the business that had brought him to Dorringtons'.

"Sorry to trouble you, Goodlett," he said by way of making a beginning.

"I notice you ain't cryin' none to hurt," remarked Mr. Goodlett placidly. "An' ef you was, you'd be cryin' for nothin'. You ain't troublin' me a mite. Forty an' four like you can't trouble me."

"You'll have to excuse Ab," said Mrs. Goodlett, who had preceded Gabriel and Silas to the kitchen. "He's lost his cud, an' he won't be right well till he finds it ag'in." She placed her hand over her mouth to hide her smiles.

Silas Tomlin paid no attention to this by-play. He stood like a man who is waiting an opportunity to get in a word.

"Goodlett, who were the ladies you brought from Malvern to-day?" His face was very serious.

"You know 'em lots better'n I do. The oldest seed you out in the field, an' she axed me who you mought be. I told her, bekaze I ain't got no secrets from my pa.s.sengers, specially when they're good-lookin' an'

plank down the'r money before they start. Arter I told 'em who you was, the oldest made you a mighty purty bow, but you wer'n't polite enough for to take off your hat. I dunno as I blame you much, all things considered. Then the youngest, she's the daughter, she says, says she, 'Is that reely him, ma?' an' t'other one, says she, 'Ef it's him, honey, he's swunk turrible.' She said them very words."

"I wonder who in the world they can be?" said Silas Tomlin, as if talking to himself.

"You'll think of the'r names arter awhile," Mr. Goodlett remarked by way of consolation, but his tone was so suspicious that Silas turned on his heel--he had started out--and asked Mr. Goodlett what he meant.

"Adzackly what I said, nuther more nor less."

Mrs. Absalom was so curious to find out something more that Silas was hardly out of the house before she began to ply her husband with questions. But they were all futile. Mr. Goodlett knew no more than that he had brought the women from Malvern; that they had chanced to spy old Silas Tomlin in a field by the side of the road, and that when the elder of the two women found out what his name was, she made him a bow, which Silas wasn't polite enough to return.

"That's all I know," remarked Mr. Goodlett. "Dog take the wimmen anyhow!" he exclaimed indignantly; "ef they'd stay at home they'd be all right; but here they go, a-trapesin' an' a-trollopin' all over creation, an' a-givin' trouble wherever they go. They git me so muddled an'

befuddled wi' ther whickerin' an' snickerin' that I dunner which een'

I'm a-stannin' on half the time. Nex' time they want to ride wi' me, I'll say, 'Walk!' By jacks! I won't haul 'em."

This episode, if it may be called such, made small impression on Gabriel's mind, but it tickled Mrs. Goodlett's mind into activity, and the lad heard more of Silas Tomlin during the next hour than he had ever known before. In a manner, Silas was a very important factor in the community, as money-lenders always are, but according to Gabriel's idea, he was always one of the poorest creatures in the world.

When he was a young man, Silas joined the tide of emigration that was flowing westward. He went to Mississippi, where he married his first wife. In a year's time, he returned to his old home. When asked about his wife--for he returned alone--he curtly answered that she was well enough off. Mrs. Absalom was among those who made the inquiry, and her prompt comment was, "She's well off ef she's dead; I'll say that much."

But there was a persistent rumour, coming from no one knew where, that when a child was born to Silas, the wife was seized with such a horror of the father that the bare sight of him would cause her to scream, and she constantly implored her people to send him away. It is curious how rumours will travel far and wide, from State to State, creeping through swamps, flying over deserts and waste places, and coming home at last as the carrier-pigeon does, especially if there happens to be a grain of truth in them.

It turned out that the lady, in regard to whom Silas Tomlin expressed such curiosity, was a Mrs. Claiborne, of Kentucky, who, with her daughter, had refugeed from point to point in advance of the Federal army. Finally, when peace came, the lady concluded to make her home in Georgia, where she had relatives, and she selected Shady Dale as her place of abode on account of its beauty. These facts became known later.

Evidently the new-comers had resources, for they arranged to occupy the Gaither house, taking it as it stood, with Miss Polly Gaither, furniture and all. This arrangement must have been satisfactory to Miss Polly in the first place, or it would never have been made; and it certainly relieved her of the necessity of living on the charity of her neighbours, under pretence of borrowing from them. But so strange a bundle of contradictions is human nature, that no sooner had Miss Polly begun to enjoy the abundance that was now showered upon her in the shape of victuals and drink than she took her ear-trumpet in one hand and her work-bag in the other, and went abroad, gossiping about her tenants, telling what she thought they said, and commenting on their actions--not maliciously, but simply with a desire to feed the curiosity of the neighbours.

In order to do this more effectually, Miss Polly returned visits that had been made to her before the war. There was nothing in her talk to discredit the Claibornes or to injure their characters. They were strangers to the community, and there was a natural and perfectly legitimate curiosity on the part of the town to learn something of their history. Miss Polly could not satisfy this curiosity, but she could whet it by leaving at each one's door choice selections from her catalogue of the sayings and doings of the new-comers--wearing all the time a dress that Miss Eugenia, the daughter, had made over for her. Miss Polly was a dumpy little woman, and, with her wen, her ear-trumpet, and her work-bag, she cut a queer figure as she waddled along.

There was one piece of information she gave out that puzzled the community no little. According to Miss Polly, the Claibornes had hardly settled themselves in their new home before Silas Tomlin called on them.

"I can't hear as well as I used to," said Miss Polly--she was deaf as a door-post--"but I can see as well as anybody; yes indeed, as well as anybody in the world. And I tell you, Lucy Lumsden"--she was talking to Gabriel's grandmother--"as soon as old Silas darkened the door, I knew he was worried. I never saw a grown person so fidgety and nervous, unless it was Micajah Clemmons, and he's got the rickets, poor man. So I says to myself, 'I'll watch you,' and watch I did. Well, when Mrs.

Claiborne came into the parlour, she bowed very politely to old Silas, but I could see that she could hardly keep from laughing in his face; and I don't blame her, for the way old Silas went on was perfectly ridiculous. He spit and he spluttered, and sawed the air with his arms, and b.u.t.toned and unb.u.t.toned his coat, and jerked at the bottom of his wescut till I really thought he'd pull the front out. I wish you could have seen him, Lucy Lumsden, I do indeed. And when the door was shut on him, Mrs. Claiborne flung herself down on a sofa, and laughed until she frightened her daughter. I don't complain about my afflictions as a general thing, Lucy, but I would have given anything that day if my hearing had been as good as it used to be."

And though Gabriel's grandmother was a woman of the highest principles, holding eavesdropping in the greatest contempt, it is possible that she would have owned to a mild regret that Miss Polly Gaither was too deaf to hear what Silas Tomlin's troubles were. This was natural, too, for, on account of the persistent rumours that had followed Silas home from Mississippi, there was always something of a mystery in regard to his first matrimonial venture. There was none about his second. A year or two after he returned home he married Susan Pritchard, whose father was a prosperous farmer, living several miles from town. Susan bore Silas a son and died. She was a pious woman, and with her last breath named the child Paul, on account of the conjunction of the names of Paul and Silas in the New Testament. Paul grew up to be one of the most popular young men in the community.

CHAPTER EIGHT

_The Political Machine Begins its Work_

All that has been set down thus far, you will say, is trifling, unimportant and wearisome. Your decision is not to be disputed; but if, by an effort of the mind, you could throw yourself back to those dread days, you would understand what a diversion these trifling events and episodes created for the heart-stricken and soul-weary people of that region. The death of Margaret Bridalbin moved them to pity, and awoke in their minds pleasing memories of happier days, when peace and prosperity held undisputed sway in all directions. The arrival of the Claibornes had much the same effect. It gave the community something to talk about, and, in a small measure, took them out of themselves. Moreover, the Claibornes, mother and daughter, proved to be very attractive additions to the town's society. They were both bright and good-humoured, and the daughter was very beautiful.

To a people overwhelmed with despair, the most trifling episode becomes curiously magnified. The case of Mr. Goodlett is very much to the point.

He was merely an individual, it is true, but in some respects an individual represents the ma.s.s. When Sherman's men hanged him to a limb, under the mistaken notion that he was the custodian of the Clopton plate, the last thing he remembered as he lost consciousness, was the ticking of his watch. It sounded in his ears, he said, as loud as the blows of a sledge-hammer falling on an anvil. From that day until he died, he never could bear to hear the ticking of a watch. He gave his time-piece to his wife, who put it away with her other relics and treasures.

How it was with other communities it is not for this chronicler to say, but the collapse of the Confederacy, coming when it did, was an event that Shady Dale least expected. The last trump will cause no greater surprise and consternation the world over, than the news of Lee's surrender caused in that region. The public mind had not been prepared for such an event, especially in those districts remote from the centres of information. Almost every piece of news printed in the journals of the day was coloured with the prospect of ultimate victory: and when the curtain suddenly came down and the lights went out, no language can describe the grief, the despair, and the feeling of abject humiliation that fell upon the white population in the small towns and village communities. How it was in the cities has not been recorded, but it is to be presumed that then, as now, the demands and necessities of trade and business were powerful enough to overcome and destroy the worst effects of a calamity that attacked the sentiments and emotions.

It has been demonstrated recently on some very wide fields of action that the atmosphere of commercialism is unfavourable to the growth of sentiments of an ideal character. That is why wise men who believe in the finer issues of life are inclined to be suspicious of what is loosely called civilisation and progress, and doubtful of the theories of those who clothe themselves in the mantle of science.

Whatever the feeling in the cities may have been when news of the surrender came, it caused the most poignant grief and despair in the country places: and there, as elsewhere in this world, whenever suffering is to be borne, the most of the burden falls on the shoulders of the women. It is at once the strength and weakness of the s.e.x that woman suffers more than man and is more capable of enduring the pangs of suffering.

As for the men they soon recovered from the shock. They were startled and stunned, but when they opened their eyes to the situation they found themselves confronted by conditions that had no precedent or parallel in the history of the world. It is small fault if their minds failed at first to grasp the significance and the import of these conditions, so new were they and so amazing.

A few years later, Gabriel Tolliver, who, when the surrender came, was a lad just beyond seventeen, took himself severely to task before a public a.s.semblage for his blindness in 1865, and the years immediately following; and his criticisms must have gone home to others, for the older men who sat in the audience rose to their feet and shook the house with their applause. They, too, had been as blind as the boy.

It was perhaps well for Shady Dale that Mr. Sanders came home when he did. He had been in the field, if not on the forum. He had mingled with public men, and, as he himself contended, had been "closeted" with one of the greatest men the country ever produced--the reference being to Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Sanders had to tell over and over again the story of how he and Frank Bethune didn't kidnap the President; and he brought home hundreds of rich and racy anecdotes that he had picked up in the camp. In those awful days when there was little ready money to be had, and business was at a standstill, and the courts demoralised, and the whole social fabric threatening to fall to pieces, it was Mr. Billy Sanders who went around scattering cheerfulness and good-humour as carelessly as the children scatter the flowers they have gathered in the fields.

Mr. Sanders and Francis Bethune had formed a part of the escort that went with Mr. Davis as far as Washington in Wilkes County. On this account, Mr. Sanders boasted that at the last meeting of the Confederate Cabinet held in that town, he had elected himself a member, and was duly installed. "It was the same," he used to say, "as j'inin' the Free-masons. The doorkeeper gi' me the grip an' the pa.s.sword, the head man of the war department knocked me on the forrerd, an' the thing was done. When Mr. Davis was ready to go, he took me by the hand, an' says, 'William,' says he, 'keep house for the boys till I git back, an' be sh.o.r.e that you cheer 'em up.'"

This sort of nonsense served its purpose, as Mr. Sanders intended that it should. Wherever he appeared on the streets a crowd gathered around him--as large a crowd as the town could furnish. To a spectator standing a little distance away and out of hearing, the att.i.tude and movements of these groups presented a singular appearance. The individuals would move about and swap places, trying to get closer to Mr. Sanders. There would be a period of silence, and then, suddenly, loud shouts of laughter would rend the air. Such a spectator, if a stranger, might easily have imagined that these men and boys, standing close together, and shouting with laughter at intervals, were engaged in practising a part to be presented in a rural comedy--or that they were a parcel of simpletons.

One peculiarity of Mr. Sanders's humour was that it could not be imitated with any degree of success. His raciest anecdote lost a large part of its flavour when repeated by some one else. It was the way he told it, a cut of the eye, a lift of the eyebrow, a movement of the hand, a sudden air of solemnity--these were the accessories that gave point and charm to the humour.

Mr. Sanders had cut out a very large piece of work for himself. He kept it up for some time, but he gradually allowed himself longer and longer intervals of seriousness. The mult.i.tude of problems growing out of the new and strange conditions were of a thought-compelling nature; and they grew larger and more ominous as the days went by. Gabriel Tolliver might take to the woods, as the saying is, and so escape from the prevailing depression. But Mr. Sanders and the rest of the men had no such resource; responsibility sat on their shoulders, and they were compelled to face the conditions and study them. Gabriel could sit on the fence by the roadside, and see neither portent nor peril in the groups and gangs of negroes pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing, and moving restlessly to and fro, some with bundles and some with none. He watched them, as he afterward complained, with a curiosity as idle as that which moves a little child to watch a swarm of ants. He noticed, however, that the negroes were no longer cheerful. Their child-like gaiety had vanished. In place of their loud laughter, their boisterous play, and their songs welling forth and filling the twilight places with sweet melodies, there was silence.

Gabriel had no reason to regard this silence as ominous, but it was so regarded by his elders.

He thought that the restless and uneasy movements of the negroes were perfectly natural. They had suddenly come to the knowledge that they were free, and they were testing the nature and limits of their freedom.

They desired to find out its length and its breadth. So much was clear to Gabriel, but it was not clear to his elders. And what a pity that it was not! How many mistakes would have been avoided! What a dreadful tangle and turmoil would have been prevented if these grown children could have been judged from Gabriel's point of view! For the boy's interpretation of the restlessness and uneasiness of the blacks was the correct one. Your historians will tell you that the situation was extraordinary and full of peril. Well, extraordinary, if you will, but not perilous. Gabriel could never be brought to believe that there was anything to be dreaded in the att.i.tude of the blacks. What he scored himself for in the days to come was that his interest in the matter never rose above the idle curiosity of a boy.

And yet there were some developments calculated to pique curiosity. A few years before the war, one of Madame Awtry's nephews from Ma.s.sachusetts came in to the neighbourhood preaching freedom to the negroes. As a result, a large body of the Clopton negroes gathered around the house one morning with many breathings and mutterings. Uncle Plato, the carriage-driver, went to his master with a very grave face, and announced that the hands, instead of going to work, had come in a body to the house.

"Well, go and see what they want, Plato," said the master of the Clopton Place.

"I done ax um dat, suh," replied Uncle Plato, "an' dey say p'intedly dat dey want ter see you."

"Very well; where is Mr. Sanders?"

"He out dar, suh, makin' fun un um."

When Meriwether Clopton went out, he was told by old man Isaiah, the foreman of the field-hands, that the boys didn't want to be "Bledserd."