"Why, what in the world is the matter, Polly? Are you ill?"
At this Miss Polly acted as if she had been aroused from a dream or a revery. Her work-bag slid from her lap, and her turkey-tail fan would have fallen had it not been attached to her wrist by a piece of faded ribbon. "I declare, Lucy, I don't know that I ought to tell you; and I wouldn't if I thought you would repeat it to a living soul. It is more than marvellous; it is, indeed, Lucy"—leaning a little nearer, and lowering her voice, which was never very loud—"I honestly believe that Ritta Claiborne is in love with old Silas Tomlin! I certainly do."
"You must have some reason for believing that," said Mrs. Lumsden, with a benevolent6 smile, the cause of which the ear-trumpet could not interpret.
"Reasons! I have any number, Lucy. I'm certain you won't believe me, but it has come to that pass that old Silas calls on her every night, and they sit in the parlour there and talk by the hour, sometimes with Eugenia, and sometimes without her. It would be no exaggeration at all if I were to tell you that they are talking together in that parlour five nights out of the seven. Now, what do they mean by that?"
"Why, there's nothing in that, Polly. I have heard that they are old acquaintances. Surely old acquaintances can talk together, and be interested in one another, without being in love. Why, very frequently of late Meriwether Clopton comes here. I hope you don't think I'm in love with him."
"Certainly not, Lucy, most certainly not. But do you have Meriwether's portrait hanging in your parlour? And do you go and sit before it, and study it, and sometimes shake your finger at it playfully? I tell you, Lucy, there are some queer people in this world, and Ritta Claiborne is one of them."
"She is excellent company," said Mrs. Lumsden.
"She is, she is," Miss Polly assented7. "She is full of life and fun; she sees the ridiculous side of everything; and that is why I can't understand her fondness for old Silas. It is away beyond me. Why, Lucy, she treats that portrait as if it were alive. What she says to it, I can't tell you, for my hearing is not as good now as it was before my ears were affected8. But she says something, for I can see her lips move, and I can see her smile. My eyesight is as good now as ever it was. I'm telling you what I saw, not what I heard. The way she went on over that portrait was what first attracted my attention; but for that I would never have had a suspicion. Now, what do you think of it, Lucy?"
"Nothing in particular. If it is true, it would be a good thing for Silas. He is not as mean as a great many people think he is."
"He may not be, Lucy," responded Miss Polly, "but he brings a bad taste in my mouth every time I see him."
"Well, directly after Sherman passed through," said Mrs. Lumsden, "and when few of us had anything left, Silas came to me, and asked if I needed anything, and he was ready to supply me with sufficient funds for my needs."
"Well, he didn't come to me," Miss Polly declared with emphasis, "and if anybody in this world had needs, I did. You remember Robert Gaither? Well, Silas loaned him some money during the war, and although Robert was in a bad way, old Silas collected every cent down to the very last, and Robert had to go to Texas. Oh, I could tell you of numberless instances where he took advantage of those who had borrowed from him."
"I suppose that Mr. Lumsden had been kind to Silas when he was sowing his wild oats; indeed, I think my husband advanced him money when he had exhausted9 the supply allowed him by the executors of the Tomlin estate."
"And just think of it, Lucy—Ritta Claiborne sits there and plays the piano for old Silas, and sometimes Eugenia goes in and sings, and she has a beautiful voice; I'm not too deaf to know that."
It was then that Mrs. Lumsden leaned over and gave the ear-trumpet some very good advice. "If I were in your place, Polly, I wouldn't tell this to any one else. Mrs. Claiborne is an excellent woman; she comes of a good family, and she is cultured and refined. No doubt she is sensitive, and if she heard that you were spreading your suspicions abroad, she would hardly feel like staying in a house where——" Mrs. Lumsden paused. She had it on her tongue's-end to say, "in a house where she is spied upon," but she had no desire in the world to offend that simple-minded old soul, who, behind all her peculiarities10 and afflictions, had a very tender heart.
"I know what you mean, Lucy," said Miss Polly, "and your advice is good; but I can't help seeing what goes on under my eyes, and I thought there could be no harm in telling you about it. I am very fond of Ritta Claiborne, and as for Eugenia, why she is simply angelic. I love that child as well as if she were my own. If there's a flaw in her character, I have never found it. I'll say that much."
The explanation of Miss Polly's suspicions is not as simple as her recital12 of them. No one can account for some of the impulses of the human heart, or the vagaries13 of the human mind. It is easy to say that after Silas Tomlin had his last interview with Mrs. Claiborne, he permitted his mind to dwell on her personality and surroundings, and so fell gradually under a spell. Such an explanation is not only easy to imagine, but it is plausible14; nevertheless, it would not be true. There is a sort of tradition among the brethren who deal with character in fiction that it must be consistent with itself. This may be necessary in books, for it sweeps away at one stroke ten thousand mysteries and problems that play around the actions of every individual, no matter how high, no matter how humble15. How often do we hear it remarked in real life that the actions of such and such an individual are a source of surprise and regret to his friends; and how often in our own experience have we been shocked by the unexpected as it crops out in the actions of our friends and acquaintances!
For this and other reasons this chronicler does not propose to explain Silas's motives16 and movements and try to show that they are all consistent with his character, and that, therefore, they were all to be predicated from the beginning. What is certainly true is that Silas was one day stopped in the street by Eugenia, who inquired about Paul. He looked at the girl very gloomily at first, but when he began to talk about the troubles of his son, he thawed17 out considerably18. In this case Eugenia's sympathies abounded19, in fact were unlimited20, and she listened with dewy eyes to everything Silas would tell her about Paul.
"You mustn't think too much about Paul," remarked Silas grimly, as they were about to part.
"Thank you, sir," replied Eugenia, with a smile, "I'll think just enough and no more. But it was my mother that told me to ask about him if I saw you. She is very fond of him. You never come to see us now," the sly creature suggested.
Silas stared at her before replying, and tried to find the gleam of mockery in her eyes, or in her smile. He failed, and his glances became shifty again. "Why, I reckon she'd kick me down the steps if I called without having some business with her. If you were to ask her who her worst enemy is, she'd tell you that I am the man."
"Well, sir," replied Eugenia archly, "I have been knowing mother a good many years, but I've never seen her put any one out of the house yet. We were talking about you to-day, and she said you must be very lonely, now that Paul is away, and I know she sympathises with those who are lonely; I've heard her say so many a time."
"Yes; that may be true," remarked Silas, "but she has special reasons for not sympathising with me. She knows me a great deal better than you do."
"I'm afraid you misjudge us both," said Eugenia demurely21. "If you knew us better, you'd like us better. I'm sure of that."
"Humph!" grunted22 Silas. Then looking hard at the girl, he bluntly asked, "Is there anything between you and Paul?"
"A good many miles, sir, just now," she answered, making one of those retorts that Paul thought so fine.
"H-m-m; yes, you are right, a good many miles. Well, there can't be too many."
"I think you are cruel, sir. Is Paul not to come home any more? Paul is a very good friend of mine, and I could wish him well wherever he might be; but how would you feel, sir, if he were never to return?"
"Well, I must go," said Silas somewhat bluntly. When Beauty has a glib23 tongue, abler men than Silas find themselves without weapons to cope with it.
"Shall I tell mother that you have given your promise to call soon?" Eugenia asked.
"Now, I hope you are not making fun of me," cried Silas with some irritation24.
"How could that be, sir? Don't you think it would be extremely pert in a young girl to make fun of a gentleman old enough to be her father?"
Silas winced25 at the comparison. "Well, I have seen some very pert ones," he insisted, and with that he bade her good-day with a very ill grace, and went on about his business, of which he had a good deal of one kind and another.
"Mother," said Eugenia, after she had given an account of her encounter with Silas, "I believe the man has a good heart and is ashamed of it."
"Why, I think the same may be said of most of the grand rascals26 that we read about in history; and the pity of it is that they would have all been good men if they had had the right kind of women to deal with them and direct their careers."
"Do you really think so, mother?" the daughter inquired.
"I'm sure of it," said the lady.
Then after all there might be some hope for old Silas Tomlin. And his instinct may have given him an inkling of the remedy for his particular form of the whimsies27, for it was not many days before he came knocking at the lady's door, where he was very graciously received, and most delightfully29 entertained. Both mother and daughter did their utmost to make the hours pass pleasantly, and they succeeded to some extent. For awhile Silas was suspicious, then he would resign himself to the temptations of good music and bright conversation. Presently he would remember his suspicions, and straighten himself up in his chair, and assume an attitude of defiance30; and so the first evening passed. When Silas found himself in the street on his way home, he stopped still and reflected.
"Now, what in the ding-nation is that woman up to? What is she trying to do, I wonder? Why, she's as different from what she was when I first knew her as a butterfly is from a caterpillar31. Why, there ain't a pearter woman on the continent. No wonder Paul lost his head in that house! She's up to something, and I'll find out what it is."
Silas was always suspicious, but on this occasion he bethought himself of the fact that he had not been dragged into the house; he had been under no compulsion to knock at the door; indeed, he had taken advantage of the slightest hint on the part of the daughter—a hint that may have been a mere32 form of politeness. He remembered, too, that he had frequently gone by the house at night, and had heard the piano going, accompanied by the singing of one or the other of the ladies. His reflections would have made him ashamed of himself, but he had never cultivated such feelings. He left that sort of thing to the women and children.
In no long time he repeated his visit, and met with the same pleasurable experience. On this occasion, Eugenia remained in the parlour only a short time. For a diversion, the mother played a few of the old-time tunes33 on the piano, and sang some of the songs that Silas had loved in his youth. This done, she wheeled around on the stool, and began to talk about Paul.
"If I had a son like that," she said, "I should be immensely proud of him."
"You have a fine daughter," Silas suggested, by way of consolation34.
She shrugged35 her shoulders. "Yes, but you know we always want that which we have not. Yet they say that envy is among the mortal sins."
"Well, a sin's a sin, I reckon," remarked Silas.
"Oh, no! there are degrees in sin. I used to know a preacher who could run the scale of evil-doing and thinking, just as I can trip along the notes on the piano."
"They once tried to make a preacher out of me," remarked Silas, "but when I slipped in the church one day and went up into the pulpit, I found it was a great deal too big for me."
"They make them larger now," said the lady, "so that they will hold the exhorter36 and the horrible example at the same time."
"Did Paul ever see my picture there?" asked Silas, changing the conversation into a more congenial channel.
"Why, I think so," replied the lady placidly37. "I think he asked about it, and I told him that we had known each other long ago, which was not at all the truth."
"What did Paul say to that?" asked Silas eagerly.
"He said that while some people might think you were queer, you had been a good dad to him. I think he said dad, but I'll not be sure."
"Yes, yes, he said it," cried Silas, all in a glow. "That's Paul all over; but what will the poor boy think when he finds out what you know?"
"Why, he'll enjoy the situation," said the lady, laughing. "As you Georgians say, he'll be tickled38 to death."
Silas regarded her with astonishment39, his hands clenched40 and his thin lips pressed together. "Do you think, Madam, that it is a matter for a joke? You women——"
"Can't I have my own views? You have yours, and I make no objection."
"But think of what a serious matter it is to me. Do you realise that there is nothing but a whim28 betwixt me and disgrace—betwixt Paul and disgrace?"
"A whim? Why, you are another Daniel O'Connell! Call me a hyperbole, a rectangled triangle, a parenthesis41, or a hyphen." She was laughing, and yet it was plain to be seen that she had no relish42 for the term which Silas had unintentionally applied43 to her.
"I meant to say that if the notion seized you, you would fetch us down as a hunter bags a brace44 of doves."
"Buzzards, then!" said Silas with some heat.
"Well, there's nobody hurt but me," was Silas's gruff reply.
"Well, when I say Paul, I mean myself. I've been called worse names than buzzard by people who were trying to walk off with my money. Oh, they didn't call me that to my face," said Silas, noticing a queer expression in the lady's eyes. "And people who should have known better have hated me because I didn't fling my money away after I had saved it."
"Well, you needn't worry about that," Mrs. Claiborne remarked. "You will have plenty of company in the money-grabbing business before long. I can see signs of it now, and every time I think of it I feel sorry for our young men, yes, and our young women, and the long generations that are to come after them. In the course of a very few years you will find your business to be more respectable than any of the professions. You remember how, before the war, we used to sneer47 at the Yankees for their money-making proclivities48? Well, it won't be very long before we'll beat them at their own game; and then our politicians will thrive, for each and all of them will have their principles dictated49 by Shylock and his partners."
"Why, you talk as if you were a politician yourself. But why are you sorry for our young women?"
"That was a hasty remark. I am sorry for those who will grow weary and fall by the wayside. The majority of them, and the best of them, will make themselves useful in thousands of ways, and new industries will spring up for their benefit. They will become workers, and, being workers, they will be independent of the men, and finally begin to look down on them as they should."
"Well!" exclaimed Silas, and then he sat and gazed at the lady for the first time with admiration50. "Where'd you learn all that?" he asked after awhile.
"Oh, I read the newspapers, and such books as I can lay my hands on, and I remember what I read. Didn't you notice that I recited my piece much as a school-boy would?"
"No, I didn't," replied Silas. "I do a good deal of reading myself, but all those ideas are new to me."
"Well, they'll be familiar to you just as soon as our people can look around and get their bearings. As for me, I propose to become an advanced woman, and go on the stage; there's nothing like being the first in the field. I always told my husband that if he died and left me without money, I proposed to earn my own living."
"You told your husband that? When did you tell him?" inquired Silas with some eagerness.
"Oh, long before he died," replied the lady.
"Why, certainly," replied Mrs. Claiborne. "What possible reason could I have for denying or concealing52 the fact?"
Silas straightened himself in his chair, and frowned. "Then why did you come here and pretend—pretend—ain't you Ritta Rozelle, that used to be?"
"There were two of them," the lady replied. "They were twins. One was named Clarita, and the other Floretta, but both were called Ritta by those who could not distinguish them apart. I had reason to believe that you hadn't treated my sister as you should have done, and I came here to see if you would take the bait. You snapped it up before the line touched the water. It was not even necessary for me to try to deceive you. You simply shut your eyes and declared that I was your wife and that I had come."
"You are the sister who was going to school in—wasn't it Boston?"
"Yes; that is why I am broad-minded and free from guile," remarked the lady with a laugh so merry that it irritated Silas.
"Then you have never been married to me," Silas suggested, still frowning.
"Well, you never denied it," he said.
"You never gave me an opportunity," she retorted.
"You simply sat back, and watched me make a fool of myself."
"You express it very well."
Silas squirmed on his chair. "Why, you knew me the minute you saw me!" he cried.
"Therefore you are still sure I am the woman you married in Louisiana. Well, the man who was driving the hack54 the day of my arrival, saw you in the fields, and he made a remark I have never forgotten. He said—she mimicked55 Mr. Goodlett as well as she could—'Well, dang my hide! ef thar ain't old Silas Tomlin out huntin'! Ef he shoots an' misses he'll pull all his ha'r out.' 'Why?' I asked. 'Bekaze he can't afford to waste a load of powder an' shot.'"
Silas tried to smile. He knew that the point of Mr. Goodlett's joke was lost on the lady.
Silas tried to smile, but the effort was too much for him, and he frowned instead. "You did all you could to humour my mistake," he declared.
"I certainly did," said Mrs. Claiborne, very seriously. "I had good reason to believe that your treatment of my sister was not what it should have been."
"Good Lord! she wouldn't let me treat her well. Why, we hadn't been married three months before she took a dislike to me, and she never got over it. The truth is, she couldn't bear the sight of me. I did what any other young man would have done. I packed up my things and came back home. I told Dorrington about it when I came back, and he said the trouble was a form of hysterics that finally develops into insanity56."
"Yes, that was what happened to my poor sister," said Mrs. Claiborne, "and I never knew the facts until a few months ago. Our aunt, you know, always contended that you were the cause of it all. But Judge Vardeman, quite by accident, met the physician who had charge of the case, and I have a letter from him which clearly explains the whole matter."
Silas Tomlin sat silent for a long time, his gaze fixed57 on the floor. "Well, well! here I have been going on for years under the impression that I was partly responsible for that poor girl's troubles; and it has been a nightmare riding me every minute that I had time to think." He stood up, stretched his arms above his head, and drew a long breath. "I thank you for laying my ghost, and I'll bid you good-night."
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1
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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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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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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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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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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whimsies
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| n.怪念头( whimsy的名词复数 )；异想天开；怪脾气；与众不同的幽默感 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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caterpillar
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| n.毛虫，蝴蝶的幼虫 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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exhorter
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| n.劝勉者，告诫者，提倡者 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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50
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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51
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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53
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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54
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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55
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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56
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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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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