Part 42 (2/2)
He was leaning against the table for support, licking his lips and staring. And in meeting this stare the old negress lost her own fright, for she saw a man thoroughly cowered and conquered.
”What d'you mean?” he again asked.
”I don' mean nuthin',” she declared, ”'cept dat I knows when dem big jail dohs down dar at Frankfo't shets, dey's gwine stay shet a long time, dat's all. Make haste, chile, an' git in mah buggy 'foh I busts you one;--an' Mrs. Hewlet, dat screetchin' ain' gwine help none!”
Holding back the door for Nancy to pa.s.s, Timmie watched with grim satisfaction Tom's exit from the kitchen; and after they reached the buggy, both kept their eyes on him as he tramped through the orchard and disappeared over the hill. The black frame now began to shake.
”You kin go on back now, ef you wants to,” she chuckled.
”Why, I thought something awful was about to happen!”
”So dar wuz sumfin awful 'bout to happen, an' happenin',” the old woman laughed. ”But I done put de squee-gee on dat! I hyeerd de fracas, an'
hyeerd what he uz sayin', an' knowed jest 'bout how-c.u.m 'twuz.”
”Oh, Aunt Timmie,” the girl impulsively cried, ”if everyone had your good heart!”
”Mah heart ain' nuthin' to brag on, chile. I jest happen to know dat in dis worl' dey's wicked people dat'll stoop deeper'n sin fer a dime; an'
dey's onery people, so mis'ably onery, dat's afeerd to call dey soul dey own; an' dar's still anurr kind what ain' had no trainin', so when a stylish gemman comes 'long dey's mighty apt to go wrong, 'caze dey ain'
had a faih show. Now, I reckon, I most named all de fambly;--I ain'
sayin' what fambly, but I is sayin' dat ole Timmie knows moh'n most pussons reckons she do. 'Sides dat, she kin find moh 'xcuses in her heart den de worl' kin. Run 'long, now! I jest stepped in 'caze a li'l gal warn't gittin' a faih show!”
”Oh, Aunt Timmie,” the girl cried, ”I ain't bad! But that beast wouldn't care, if he could make them pay more for his farm!”
A strangely beautiful light swept across the wrinkled face.
”Look up at me, chile, an' say dat fu'st agin!”
Nancy raised her flushed cheeks and gazed into the age-marked eyes of her black inquisitor. Then slowly she repeated:
”I ain't bad, Aunt Timmie!”
A deep sigh, like the pa.s.sing of cave winds, came from the old woman's throat.
”Praise de Lawd,” she murmured. ”I see now you'se not, honey; but jest why is too much fer me. Run 'long befoh Aunt Timmie make a fool of herse'f. Dat man's oudacious wickedness is got to be stopped--but you leave dat to me! Some day I'se gwine send fer you, an' you'se comin'
widout axin' why. Heah dat? Run 'long, now; an' Gawd bress de li'l lamb!”
There was a riot of confusion in her mind as she climbed back into the buggy and scolded the old mule until he awoke--or pretended to awake.
The universe as she had arranged it, as she had fitted it together into a mosaic picture before her cabin hearth-stone, was wrong. The little cubes were all askew. The technique was false. This girl, whom she had put into the pile of relics strewn along Brent's path, was no relic at all, and did not belong there. Dale, whom she had staged to rival that other gaunt n.o.bleman of Nature--the product of Kentucky who began life not more than half a hundred miles from the very soil over which she now was driving, who had likewise toiled and endured much for an education; who had emanc.i.p.ated her race; whom, with latter day pride, she declared she had seen in his boyhood;--had now ruined his chances of being President by killing a man. She rocked slowly and pitifully to and fro, as the old mule ambled on, bemoaning the mess of pied cubes that now stood only for destroyed symmetry--a recalcitrant universe. She may have derived some comfort from the antic.i.p.ation of rearranging Nancy to a nicer part, but this was vastly overshadowed by grief at Dale's untimely act.
She was not guiding the mule, and it turned of its own accord into the winding woodland road to Flat Rock. She probably did not realize home was so near until a gentle voice called her name.
Jane was on the lawn, beneath a low spreading, rambling maple tree whose summer shade had not for years been pierced by a single shaft of sunlight. A rustic table and some rustic chairs were there. It was a spot she chose for the examination of Dale's papers.
Aunt Timmie went on and tied the mule, but tarried not to change her freshly starched calico dress. This was no day whereon to spare clothes.
Atop her red bandanna a sunbonnet perched neglected. A small, aggressive tuft of white wool had squeezed below this head-kerchief and was being held in check by ponderous silver-rimmed spectacles, absently pushed up on her forehead. Such an excess of head gear seemed excuse enough for the perspiration trickling down her face as she now looked sorrowfully at the girl.
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