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 parsimony5 to exist side by side with any of the finer feelings. All the conditions and circumstances, the ability to command leisure, the very climate itself, promoted hospitality, generosity6, open-handedness, and that fine spirit of lavishness7 that seeks at any cost to give pleasure to others. Popular opinion, therefore, looked with a cold and suspicious eye on all manifestations8 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 indifference9 of his father, rather than to the ardent10 affection that burned unseen and unmarked in Silas's bosom11.
He had never, by word or act, intentionally12 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 promptly13 gratified; when they were unreasonable14, their gratification was postponed15 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 Fanny, and he was far more familiar with these two than he was with his father. His association 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 outweigh17 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 noted18, 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."
"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 radicals21, 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 gulped22 it down again and smiled faintly. If this was all Paul had heard, well and good. Compared with some other things, it was a mere16 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 spoke23: "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 complexion25 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 dictate26 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 kindle27.
Silas Tomlin sank into a chair, as he heard the street-door slammed. "Disgrace him! My God! 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 glass in de house, an' half de crock'ry-ware in de dinin'-room, an' den2 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 deliberately28 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.
"Well, I bet you nobody don't knock yo' brains out," remarked Rhody undismayed. "An' while I'm 'bout19 it, I'll tell you dis: Yo' supper's in dar in de pots an' pans; ef you want it you go git it an' put on de table, er set flat on de h'ath an' eat it. Dat chile's gone, an' I'm gwine."
"You dratted fool!" Silas exclaimed, "you know Paul hasn't gone for good. He'll come back when he gets hungry, and be glad to come."
"Is you ever seed him do dis away befo' sence he been born?" Rhody paused and waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming. "No, you ain't! no, you ain't! You don't know no mo' 'bout dat chile dan ef he want yone. But I—me—ol' Rhody—I know 'im. I kin24 look at 'im sideways an' tell ef he feelin' good er bad er diffunt. What you done done ter dat chile? Tell me dat."
But Silas Tomlin answered never a word. He sat glowering29 at Rhody in a way that would have subdued30 and frightened a negro unused to his ways. Rhody started toward the kitchen, but at the door leading to the dining-room she paused and turned around. "Oh, you got a heap ter answer fer—a mighty31 heap; an' de day will come when you'll bar in mind eve'y word I been tellin' you 'bout dat chile fum de time he could wobble 'roun' an' call me mammy."
With that she went out. Silas heard her moving about in the back part of the house, but after awhile all was silence. He sat for some time communing with himself, and trying in vain to map out some consistent course of action. What a blessing32 it would be, he thought, if Paul would make good his threat, and go away! It would be like tearing his father's heart-strings out, but better that than that he should remain and be a witness to his own disgrace, and to the bitter humiliation33 of his father.
Silas had intended to warn his son that he was throwing away his time by going with Eugenia Claiborne—that marriage with her was utterly34 impossible. But it was a very delicate subject, and, once embarked35 in it, he would have been unable to give his son any adequate or satisfactory reason for the interdiction36. Many wild and whirling thoughts passed through the mind of Silas Tomlin, but at the end, he asked himself why he should cross the creek37 before he came to it?
The reflection was soothing38 enough to bring home to his mind the fact that he had had no supper. Unconsciously, and through force of habit, he had been waiting for Rhody to set the small bell to tinkling39, as a signal that the meal was ready, but no sound had come to his ears. He rose to investigate. A solitary40 candle was flaring41 on the dining-table. He went to the door leading to the kitchen and called Rhody, but he received no answer.
"Blast your impudent42 hide!" he exclaimed, "what are you doing out there? Why don't you put supper on the table?"
He would have had silence for an answer, but for the barking of a nearby neighbour's dog. He went into the kitchen, and found the fire nearly out, whereupon he made dire43 threats against his cook, but, in the end, he was compelled to fish his supper from the pans as best he could.
When he had finished he looked at the clock, and was surprised to find that it was only a little after eight. During the course of an hour and a half, he seemed to have lived and suffered a year and a half. The early hour gave him an opportunity to display one of his characteristic traits. It had never been his way to run from trouble. When a small boy, if his nurse told him the booger-man was behind a bush, he always insisted on investigating. The same impulse seized him now. If this Mrs. Claiborne proposed to make any move against him—as he inferred from the hints which the jovial44 Mr. Sanders had flung at his head—he would beard the lioness in her den, and find out what she meant, and what she wanted.
Silas was prompt to act on the impulse, and as soon as he could make the house secure, he proceeded to the Gaither Place. His knock, after some delay, was answered by Eugenia. The girl involuntarily drew back when she saw who the visitor was. "What is it you wish?" she inquired.
"If your mother is at home, please ask her if she will see Silas Tomlin on a matter of business."
Eugenia left the door open, and in a moment, from one of the rear rooms came the sound of merry, unrestrained laughter, which only ceased when some one uttered a warning "Sh-h!"
Eugenia returned almost immediately, and invited the visitor into the parlour, saying, "It is rather late for business, mamma says, but she will see you."
Silas seated himself on a sofa, and had time to look about him before the lady of the house came in. It was his second visit to Mrs. Claiborne, and he observed many changes had taken place in the disposition45 of the furniture and the draperies. He noted, too, with a feeling of helpless exasperation46, that his own portrait hung on the wall in close proximity47 to that of Rita Claiborne. He clenched48 his hands with inward rage. "What does this she-devil mean?" he asked himself, and at that moment, the object of his anger swept into the room. There was something gracious, as well as graceful49, in her movements. She had the air of a victor who is willing to be magnanimous.
"What is your business with me?" she asked with lifted eyebrows50. There was just the shadow of a smile hovering51 around her mouth. Silas caught it, and looking into a swinging mirror opposite, he saw how impossible it was for a man with a weazened face and a skull-cap to cope with such a woman as this. However, he had his indignation, his sense of persecution52, to fall back upon.
"I want to know what you intend to do," said Silas. There was a note of weakness and helplessness in his voice. "I want to know what to expect. I'm tired of leading a dog's life. I hear you have been colloguing with lawyers."
"Do you remember your first visit here?" inquired Mrs. Claiborne very sweetly. If she was an enemy, she certainly knew how to conceal53 her feelings. "Do you remember how wildly you talked—how insulting you were?"
"I declare to you on my honour that I never intended to insult you," Silas exclaimed.
"Why, all your insinuations were insulting. You gave me to understand that my coming here was an outrage—as if you had anything to do with my movements. But you insisted that my coming here was an attack on you and your son. When and where and how did I ever do you a wrong?"
"Why didn't you—didn't—" Silas tried hard to formulate54 his wrongs, but they were either so many or so few that words failed him.
"Did I desert you when you were ill and delirious55? Did I put faith in an anonymous56 letter and believe you to be dead?" The lady spoke with a calmness that seemed to be unnatural57 and unreal.
For a little while, Silas made no reply, but sat like one dazed, his eyes fixed58 on the crayon portrait of himself. "Did you hang that thing up there for Paul to see it and ask questions about it?" he asked, after awhile.
"I hung it there because I chose to," she replied. "Judge Vardeman thinks it is a very good likeness59 of you, but I don't agree with him. Do you think it does you justice?" she asked.
"And then there's Paul," said Silas, ignoring her question. "Do you propose to let him go ahead and fall in love with the girl?"
"Paul is not my son," the lady calmly answered.
"But the girl is your daughter," Silas insisted.
"I shall look after her welfare, never fear," said the lady.
"But suppose they should take a notion to marry; what would you do to stop 'em?"
"Oh, well, that is a question for the future," replied the lady, serenely60. "It will be time enough to discuss that matter when the necessity arises."
Her composure, her indifference, caused Silas to writhe61 and squirm in his chair, and she, seeing the torture she was inflicting62, appeared to be very well content.
"I didn't come to argue," said Silas presently. "I came for information; I want to know what you intend to do. I don't ask any favours and I don't want any; I'm getting my deserts, I reckon. What I sowed that I'm reaping."
"Ah!" the lady exclaimed softly, and with an air of satisfaction. "Do you really feel so?" She leaned forward a little, and there was that in her eyes that denoted something else besides satisfaction; compassion63 shone there. Her mood had not been a serious one up to this point, but she was serious now, and Silas could but observe how beautiful she was. "Do you really feel that I would be justified64 if I confirmed the suspicions you have expressed?"
"So far as I am concerned, you'd be doing exactly right," said Silas bluntly. "But what about Paul?"
"Well, what about Paul?" Mrs. Claiborne asked.
"Well, for one thing, he's never done you any harm. And there's another thing," said Silas rising from his seat: "I'd be willing to have my body pulled to pieces, inch by inch, and my bones broken, piece by piece, to save that boy one single pang65."
He stood towering over the lady. For once he had been taken clean out of himself, and he seemed to be transfigured. Mrs. Claiborne rose also.
"Paul is a very good young man," she said.
"Yes, he is!" exclaimed Silas. "He never had a mean thought, and he has never been guilty of a mean action. But that would make no difference in my feelings. It would be all the same to me if he was a thief and a scoundrel or if he was deformed66, or if he was everything that he is not. No matter what he was or might be, I would be willing to live in eternal torment67 if I could know that he is happy."
His face was not weazened now. It was illuminated68 with his love for his son, the one passion of his life, and he was no longer a contemptible69 figure. The lady refixed her eyes upon him, and wondered how he could have changed himself right before her eyes, for certainly, as it seemed to her, this was not the mean and shabby figure she had found in the parlour when she first came in. She sighed as she turned her eyes away.
"Do you remember what I told you on the occasion of your first visit?" she inquired very seriously. "You were both rude and disagreeable, but I said that I'd not trouble you again, so long as you left me alone."
"Well, haven't I left you alone?" asked Silas.
"What do you call this?" There was just the shadow of a smile on her face.
"That's a fact," said Silas after a pause. "But I just couldn't help myself. Honestly I'm sorry I came. I'm no match for you. I must bid you good-night. I hardly know what's come over me. If I've worried you, I'm truly sorry."
"One of these days," she said very kindly70, as she accompanied him to the door, "I'll send for you. At the proper time I'll give you some interesting news."
"Well, I hope it will be good news; if so, it will be the first I have heard in many a long day. Good-night."
The lady closed the door, and returned to the parlour and sat down. "Why, I thought he was a cold-blooded, heartless creature," she said to herself. Then, after some reflection she uttered an exclamation71 and clasped her hands together. Suppose he were to make way with himself! The bare thought was enough to keep the smiles away from the face of this merry-hearted lady for many long minutes. Finally, she caught a glimpse of herself in the swinging mirror. She snapped her fingers at her reflection, saying, "Pooh! I wouldn't give that for your firmness of purpose!"
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1
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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lavishness
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| n.浪费，过度 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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23
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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24
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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30
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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interdiction
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| n.禁止；封锁 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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40
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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41
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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42
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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45
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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46
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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47
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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48
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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50
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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51
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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52
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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62
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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69
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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