The Bishop of Cottontown Part 63

When the old man heard it he sat down and laughed and cried--to his own disgust--"like a fool, sissy man," he said, "a sissy man that ain't got no nerve. But, Lord, who'd done that but Ben Butler?"

CHAPTER XXVII

YOU'LL COME BACK A MAN

It was after dark when the old man, pale, and his knees still shaking with the terrible strain and excitement of it all, reached his cabin on the mountain. The cheers of the grand-stand still echoed in his ears, and, shut his eyes as he would, he still saw Ben Butler, stretched out on the track struggling for the little breath that was in him.

Jack Bracken walked in behind the old man carrying a silken sack which sagged and looked heavy.

The grandfather caught up s.h.i.+loh first and kissed her. Then he sat down with the frail form in his arms and looked earnestly at her with his deep piercing eyes.

"Where's the ole hoss," began his wife, her eyes beginning to snap.

"You've traded him off an' I'll bet you got soaked, Hillard Watts--I can tell it by that pesky, sheepish look in yo' eyes. You never cu'd trade horses an' I've allers warned you not to trade the ole roan."

"Wal, yes," said the Bishop. "I've traded him for this--" and his voice grew husky with emotion--"for this, Tabitha, an', Jack, jes'

pour it out on the table there."

It came out, yellow waves of gold. The light shone on them, and as the tired eyes of little s.h.i.+loh peeped curiously at them, each one seemed to throw to her a kiss of hope, golden tipped and resplendent.

The old woman stood dazed, and gazing sillily. Then she took up one of the coins and bit it gingerly.

"In G.o.d's name, Hillard Watts, what does all this mean? Why, it's genuwine gold."

"It means," said the old man cheerily, "that s.h.i.+loh an' the chillun will never go into that mill ag'in--that old Ben Butler has give 'em back their childhood an' a chance to live. It means," he said triumphantly, "that Cap'n Tom's gwinter have the chance he's been ent.i.tled to all these years--an' that means that G.o.d'll begin to unravel the tangle that man in his meanness has wound up. It means, Tabitha, that you'll not have to wuck anymo' yo'self--no mo', as long as you live--"

The old woman clutched at the bed-post: "Me?--not wuck anymo'? Not hunt 'sang an' spatterdock an' clean up an' wash an' scour an' cook an'--"

"No, why not, Tabitha? We've got a plenty to--"

He saw her clutch again at the bed-post and go down in a heap, saying:--

"Lemme die--now, if I can't wuck no mo'."

They lifted her on the bed and bathed her face. It was ten minutes before she came around and said feebly:

"I'm dyin', Hillard, it's kilt me to think I'll not have to wuck any mo'."

"Oh, no, Tabitha, I wouldn't die fur that," he said soothingly. "It's terrible suddent like, I kno', an' hard fur you to stan', but try to bear it, honey, fur our sakes. It's hard to be stricken suddent like with riches, an' I've never seed a patient get over it, it is true.

You'll be wantin' to change our cabin into an ole Colonial home, honey, an' have a carriage an' a pair of roached mules, an' a wantin'

me to start a cotton factory an' jine a whis'-club, whilst you entertain the Cottontown Pettico't Club with high-noon teas, an' cut up a lot o' didoes that'll make the res' of the town laugh. But you mus' fight ag'in it, Tabitha, honey. We'll jes' try to live as we've allers lived an' not spend our money so as to have people talk about how we're throwin' it at the ducks. You can get up befo' day as usual an' hunt 'sang on the mountain side, and do all the other things you've l'arnt to do befo' breakfast."

This was most rea.s.suring, and the old woman felt much better. But the next morning she complained bitterly:

"I tested ever' one o' them yaller coins las' night, they mout a put a counterfeit in the lot, an' see heah, Hillard--" she grinned showing her teeth--"I wore my teeth to the quick a testin' 'em!"

The next week, as the train took the Bishop away, he stood on the rear platform to cry good-bye to s.h.i.+loh and Jack Bracken who were down to see him off. By his side was a stooped figure and as the old man jingled some gold in his pocket he said, patting the figure on the back:

"You'll come back a man, Cap'n Tom--thank G.o.d! a man ag'in!"

PART FIFTH.--THE LOOM

CHAPTER I

A NEW MILL GIRL

The autumn had deepened--the cotton had been picked. The dry stalks, sentinelling the seared ground, waved their tattered remnants of unpicked bolls to and fro--summer's battle flags which had not yet fallen.

Millwood was astir early that morning--what there was of it. One by one the lean hounds had arisen from their beds of dry leaves under the beeches, and, shaking themselves with that hound-shake which began at their noses and ended in a circular twist of their skeleton tails, had begun to hunt for stray eggs and garbage. Yet their master was already up and astir.

He came out and took a long drink from the jug behind the door. He drank from the jug's mouth, and the gurgling echo sounded down the empty hall: _Guggle--guggle--gone! Guggle--guggle--gone!_ It said to Edward Conway as plainly as if it had a voice.

"Yes, you've gone--that's the last of you. Everything is gone," he said.

He sat down on his favorite chair, propped his feet upon the rotten balcony's rim and began to smoke.

Within, he heard Lily sobbing. Helen was trying to comfort her.

Conway glanced into the room. The oldest sister was dressed in a plain blue cotton gown--for to-day she would begin work at the mill.

Conway remembered it. He winced, but smoked on and said nothing.

"'Tain't no use--'tain't no use," sobbed the little one--"My mammy's gone--gone!"

Such indeed was the fact. Mammy Maria had gone. All that any of them knew was that only an hour before another black mammy had come to serve them, and all she would say was that she had come to take Mammy Maria's place--gone, and she knew not where.

Conway winced again and then swore under his breath. At first he had not believed it, none of them had. But as the morning went on and Mammy Maria failed to appear, he accepted it, saying: "Jus' like a n.i.g.g.ah--who ever heard of any of them havin' any grat.i.tude!"

Helen was too deeply numbed by the thought of the mill to appreciate fully her new sorrow. All she knew--all she seemed to feel--was, that go to the mill she must--go--go--and Lily might cry and the world might go utterly to ruin--as her own life was going:

"I want my mammy--I want my mammy," sobbed the little one.

Then the mother instinct of Helen--that latent motherhood which is in every one of her s.e.x, however young--however old--a.s.serted itself for the first time.

She soothed the younger child: "Never mind, Lily, I am going to the mill only to learn my lesson this week--next week you shall go with me. We will not be separated after that."

"I want my mammy--oh, I want my mammy," was all Lily could say.

Breakfast was soon over and then the hour came--the hour when Helen Conway would begin her new life. This thought--and this only--burned into her soul: To-day her disgrace began. She was no longer a Conway.