Gabriel Tolliver Part 8

At this moment, Nan, who knew by heart all the little tricks of friends.h.i.+p and affection, left Margaret, and took her stand by Neighbour Tomlin's side. It was an indors.e.m.e.nt that the other could not withstand.

She followed Nan, and said very firmly and earnestly, "It shall be as my mother wishes."

"I hope you will never have cause to regret it," remarked Pulaski Tomlin solemnly.

"She never will," Nan declared emphatically, as Pulaski Tomlin turned to go upstairs.

He went up very slowly, as if lost in thought. He went to the room and stood leaning against the framework of the door. "Pulaski is here," said Miss f.a.n.n.y, who had been waiting to announce his return.

"You remember, Pulaski," the invalid began, "that once when you were ill, you would not permit me to see you. I was so ignorant that I was angry; yes, and bitter; my vanity was wounded. And I was ignorant and bitter for many years. I never knew until eighteen months ago why I was not permitted to see you. I knew it one day, after I had been ill a long time. I looked in the mirror and saw my wasted face and hollow eyes. I knew then, and if I had known at first, Pulaski, everything would have been so different. I have come all this terrible journey to ask you to take my daughter and care for her. It is my last wish that you should be her guardian and protector. Is she in the room? Can she hear what I am about to say?"

"No, Margaret," replied Pulaski Tomlin, in a voice that was tremulous and husky. "She is downstairs; I have just seen her."

"Well, she has no father according to my way of thinking," Margaret Bridalbin went on. "Her father is a deserter from the Confederate army.

She doesn't know that; I tried to tell her, but my heart failed me.

Neither does she know that I have been divorced from him. These things you can tell her when the occasion arises. If I had told her, it would have been like accusing myself. I was responsible--I felt it and feel it--and I simply could not tell her."

"I shall try to carry out your wishes, Margaret," said Pulaski Tomlin; "I have seen your daughter, as f.a.n.n.y suggested, and she has no objection to the arrangement. I shall do all that you desire. She shall be to me a most sacred charge."

"If you knew how happy you are making me, Pulaski--Oh, I am grateful--grateful!"

"There should be no talk of grat.i.tude between you and me, Margaret."

At a signal from Pulaski Tomlin, Judge Odom cleared his throat, and read the doc.u.ment that he had drawn up, and his strong, business-like voice went far toward relieving the strain that had been put on those who heard the conversation between the dying woman and the man who had formerly been her lover. Everything was arranged as she desired, every wish she expressed had been carried out; and then, as if there was nothing else to be done, the poor lady closed her eyes with a sigh, and opened them no more in this world. It seemed that nothing had sustained her but the hope of placing her daughter in charge of Pulaski Tomlin.

CHAPTER SEVEN

_Silas Tomlin Goes A-Calling_

When the solemn funeral ceremonies were over, it was arranged that Nan should spend a few days with her new friend, Margaret Gaither--she was never called by the name of her father after her mother died--and Gabriel took advantage of Nan's temporary absence to pay a visit to Mrs.

Absalom. He was very fond of that strong-minded woman; but since Nan had grown to be such a young lady, he had not called as often as he had been in the habit of doing. He was afraid, indeed, that some one would accuse him of a sneaking desire to see Nan, and he was also afraid of the quizzing which Nan's father was always eager to apply. But with Nan away--her absence being notorious, as you may say--Gabriel felt that he could afford to call on the genial housekeeper.

Mrs. Absalom had for years been the manager of the Dorrington household, and she retained her place even after Randolph Dorrington had taken for his second wife Zepherine Dion, who had been known as Miss Johns, and who was now called Mrs. Johnny Dorrington. In that household, indeed, Mrs. Absalom was indispensable, and it was very fortunate that she and Mrs. Johnny were very fond of each other. Her maiden name was Margaret Rorick, and she came of a family that had long been attached to the Dorringtons. In another clime, and under a different system, the Roricks would have been described as retainers. They were that and much more.

They served without fee or reward. They were retainers in the highest and best sense; for, in following the bent of their affections, they retained their independence, their simple dignity and their self-respect; and in that region, which was then, and is now, the most democratic in the world, they were as well thought of as the Cloptons or the Dorringtons.

It came to pa.s.s, in the order of events, that Margaret Rorick married Mr. Absalom Goodlett, who was the manager of the Dorrington plantation.

Though she was no chicken, as she said herself, Mr. Goodlett was her senior by several years. She was also, in a sense, the victim of the humour that used to run riot in Middle Georgia; for, in spite of her individuality, which was vigorous and aggressive, she lost her own name and her husband's too. At Margaret Rorick's wedding, or, rather, at the infair, which was the feast after the wedding, Mr. Uriah Lazenby, whose memory is kept green by his feats at tippling, and who combined fiddling with farming, furnished the music for the occasion. Being something of a privileged character, and having taken a thimbleful too much dram, as fiddlers will do, the world over, Mr. Lazenby rose in his place, when the company had been summoned to the feast, and remarked:

"Margaret Rorick, now that the thing's been gone and done, and can't be holp, I nominate you Mrs. Absalom, an' Mrs. Absalom it shall be herearter. Ab Goodlett, you ought to be mighty proud when you can fling your bridle on a filly like that, an' lead her home jest for the bar'

sesso."

The loud laughter that followed placed the bride at a temporary disadvantage. She joined in, however, and then exclaimed: "My goodness!

Old Uriah's drunk ag'in; you can't pull a stopper out'n a jug in the same house wi' him but what he'll dribble at the mouth an' git shaky in the legs."

But drunk or sober, Uriah had "nominated" Mrs. Absalom for good and all.

One reason why this "nomination" was seized on so eagerly was the sudden change that had taken place in Miss Rorick's views in regard to matrimony. She was more than thirty years old when she consented to become Mrs. Absalom. Up to that time she had declared over and over again that there wasn't a man in the world she'd look at, much less marry.

Now, many a woman has said the same thing and changed her mind without attracting attention; but Mrs. Absalom's views on matrimony, and her pithy criticisms of the male s.e.x in general, had flown about on the wings of her humour, and, in that way, had come to have wide advertis.e.m.e.nt. But her "nomination" interfered neither with her individuality, nor with her ability to indulge in pithy comments on matters and things in general. Of Mr. Lazenby, she said later: "What's the use of choosin' betwixt a fool an' a fiddler, when you can git both in the same package?"

She made no bad bargain when she married Mr. Goodlett. His irritability was all on the surface. At bottom, he was the best-natured and most patient of men--a philosopher who was so thoroughly contented with the ways of the world and the order of Providence, that he had no desire to change either--and so comfortable in his own views and opinions that he was not anxious to convert others to his way of thinking. If anything went wrong, it was like a garment turned inside out; it would "come out all right in the was.h.i.+n'."

Mrs. Absalom's explanation of her change of views in the subject of matrimony was very simple and reasonable. "Why, a single 'oman," she said, "can't cut no caper at all; she can't hardly turn around wi'out bein' plumb tore to pieces by folks's tongues. But now--you see Ab over there? Well, he ain't purty enough for a centre-piece, nor light enough for to be set on the mantel-shelf, but it's a comfort to see him in that cheer there, knowin' all the time that you can do as you please, and n.o.body dastin to say anything out of the way. Why, I could put on Ab's old boots an' take his old buggy umbrell, an' go an' jine the muster.

The men might snicker behind the'r han's, but all they could say would be, 'Well, ef that kind of a dido suits Ab Goodlett, it ain't n.o.body else's business.'"

It happened that Mr. Sanders was the person to whom Mrs. Absalom was addressing her remarks, and he inquired if such an unheard of proceeding would be likely to suit Mr. Goodlett.

"To a t!" she exclaimed. "Why, he wouldn't bat his eye. He mought grunt an' groan a little jest to let you know that he's alive, but that'd be all. An' that's the trouble: ef Ab has any fault in the world that you can put your finger on, it's in bein' too good. You know, William--anyhow, you'd know it ef you belonged to my seck--that there's lots of times and occasions when it'd make the wimmen folks feel lots better ef they had somethin' or other to rip and rare about. My old cat goes about purrin', the very spit and image of innocence; but she'd die ef she didn't show her claws sometimes. Once in awhile I try my level best for to pick a quarrel wi' Ab, but before I say a dozen words, I look at him an' have to laugh. Why the way that man sets there an' says nothin' is enough to make a saint ashamed of hisself."

It was the general opinion that Mr. Goodlett, who was shrewd and far-seeing beyond the average, had an eye to strengthening his relations with Dr. Dorrington, when he "popped the question" to Margaret Rorick.

But such was not the case. His relations needed no strengthening. He managed Dorrington's agricultural interests with uncommon ability, and brought rare prosperity to the plantation. Unlettered, and, to all appearances, taking no interest in public affairs, he not only foresaw the end of the Civil War, but looked forward to the time when the Confederate Government, pressed for supplies, would urge upon the States the necessity of limiting the raising of cotton.

He gave both Meriwether Clopton and Neighbour Tomlin the benefit of these views; and then, when the rumours of Sherman's march through Georgia grew rifer he made a shrewd guess as to the route, and succeeded in hiding out and saving, not only all the cotton the three plantations had grown, but also all the livestock. Having an ingrained suspicion of the negroes, and entertaining against them the prejudices of his cla.s.s, Mr. Goodlett employed a number of white boys from the country districts to aid him with his refugee train. And he left them in charge of the camp he had selected, knowing full well that they would be glad to remain in hiding as long as the Federal soldiers were about.

The window of the dining-room at Dorringtons' commanded a view of the street for a considerable distance toward town, and it was at this window that Mrs. Absalom had her favourite seat. She explained her preference for it by saying that she wanted to know what was going on in the world. She looked out from this window one day while she was talking to Gabriel Tolliver, whose visits to Dorringtons' had come to be coincident with Nan's absence, and suddenly exclaimed:

"Well, my gracious! Ef yonder ain't old Picayune Pauper! I wonder what we have done out this way that old Picayune should be sneakin' around here? I'll tell you what--ef Ab has borried arry thrip from old Silas Tomlin, I'll quit him; I won't live wi' a man that'll have anything to do wi' that old scamp. As I'm a livin' human, he's comin' here!"

Now, Silas Tomlin was Neighbour Tomlin's elder brother, but the two men were as different in character and disposition as a warm bright day is different from a bitter black night. Pulaski Tomlin gave his services freely to all who needed them, and he was happy and prosperous; whereas Silas was a miserly money-lender and note-shaver, and always appeared to be in the clutches of adversity. To parsimony he added the sting--yes, and the stain--of a peevish and an irritable temper. It was as Mrs.

Absalom had said--"a picayunish man is a pauper, I don't care how much money he's got."

"I'll go see ef Johnny is in the house," said Mrs. Absalom. "Johnny" was Mrs. Dorrington, who, in turn, called Mrs. Absalom "Nonny," which was Nan's pet name for the woman who had raised her--"I'll go see, but I lay she's gone to see Nan; I never before seed a step-mammy so wropped up in her husband's daughter." Nan, as has been said, was spending a few days with poor Margaret Bridalbin, whose mother had just been buried.

Mrs. Absalom called Mrs. Dorrington, and then looked for her, but she was not to be found at the moment. "I reckon you'll have to go to the door, Gabe," said Mrs. Absalom, as the knocker sounded. "Sence freedom, we ain't got as many n.i.g.g.e.rs lazyin' around an' doin' nothin' as we use to have."

"Is Mr. Goodlett in?" asked Silas Tomlin, when Gabriel opened the door.

"I think he's in Malvern," Gabriel answered, as politely as he could.

"No, no, no!" exclaimed Silas Tomlin, with a terrible frown; "you don't know a thing about it, not a thing in the world. He got back right after dinner."

"Well, ef he did," said Mrs. Absalom, coming forward, "he didn't come here. He ain't cast a shadow in this house sence day before yistiddy, when he went to Malvern."

"How are you, Mrs. Absalom?--how are you?" said Silas, with a tremendous effort at politeness. "I hope you are well; you are certainly looking well. You say your husband is not in? Well, I'm sorry; I wanted to see him on business; I wanted to get some information."

"Ab don't owe you anything, I hope," remarked Mrs. Absalom, ignoring the salutation.

"Not a thing--not a thing in the world. But why do you ask? Many people have the idea that I'm rolling in money--that's what I hear--and they think that I go about loaning it to Tom, d.i.c.k and Harry. But it is not so--it is not so; I have no money."

Mrs. Absalom laughed ironically, saying, "I reckon if your son Paul was to scratch about under the house, he'd find small change about in places."

Silas Tomlin looked hard at Mrs. Absalom, his little black eyes glistening under his coa.r.s.e, heavy eyebrows like those of some wild animal. He was not a prepossessing man. He was so bald that he was compelled to wear a skull-cap, and the edge of this showed beneath the brim of his chimney-pot hat. His face needed a razor; and the grey beard coming through the cuticle, gave a ghastly, bluish tint to the pallor of his countenance. His broadcloth coat--Mrs. Absalom called it a "shadbelly"--was greasy at the collar, and worn at the seams, and his waistcoat was stained with ambeer. His trousers, which were much too large for him, bagged at the knees, and his boots were run down at the heels. Though he was temperate to the last degree, he had the appearance of a man who is the victim of some artificial stimulant.

"What put that idea in your head, Mrs. Goodlett?" he asked, after looking long and searchingly at Mrs. Absalom.

"Well, I allowed that when you was countin' out your cash, a thrip or two mought have slipped through the cracks in the floor," she replied; "sech things have happened before now."