Part 12

Jesse laughed. He was well aware that the major’s wife was the knowing one of that family. He had waited until that excellent lady had issued from the house on her way to church, and it was not until she was out of sight that he thought it safe to call on the major. Even now, after he had found the major alone, the negro was somewhat doubtful as to the propriety of explaining the nature of his business; but the old man was inquisitive.

“Oh, yes, Jess!” the major went on, after pausing long enough to have the corner of his mouth shaved—“oh, yes! I know you, an’ I know you’ve got somethin’ on your min’ right now. Spit it out.”

“Well, I’ll tell you de trufe, Marse Maje,” said Jesse, after hesitating for some time; “I tell you de Lord’s trufe, I come yer atter somepin’ ter eat.”

Major Bass caught the negro by the arm, pushed the razor carefully out of the way, and sat bolt upright in the chair.

“Do you mean to stan’ up there, you triflin’ rascal,” the major exclaimed, “an’ tell me, right before my face an’ eyes, that you’ve come a-sneaking back here atter vittles? Whyn’t you stay where the vittles was?” Major Bass was really indignant.

“Wait, Marse Maje; des gimme time,” said Jesse, nervously strapping the razor on the palm of his hand. “Des gimme time, Marse Maje. You fly up so, suh, dat you git me all mixed up wid myse’f. I come atter vittles, dat’s de Lord’s trufe; but I ain’t come atter ’em fer myse’f. Nigger like me don’t stay hongry long roun’ whar folks know um like dey does me.”

“Well, who in the name of reason sent you, then?” asked the major.

“Nobody ain’t sont me, suh,” said Jesse.

“Well, who do you want em’ fer?” insisted the major.

“Marse Judge Bascom en Miss Mildred,” replied Jesse solemnly.

Major Jimmy Bass fell back in his chair in a state of collapse, overcome by his astonishment.

“_Well!_” he exclaimed, as soon as he could catch his breath. “Ef this don’t beat the Jews an’ the Gentiles, the Scribes an’ the Pharisees, then I ain’t a-settin’ here. Did they tell you to come to this house fer vittles?”

“No, suh; _dat_ dey ain’t—_dat_ dey ain’t! Ef Miss Mildred wuz ter know I went anywhar on dis kin’ er errun’ she’d mighty nigh have a fit.”

“Well, _well_, WELL!” snorted the major.

“I des come my own se’f,” Jesse went on. He would have begun shaving again, but the major waved him away. “Look like I ’bleege’ ter come. You’d ’a’ come yo’se’f, Marse Maje, druther dan see dem folks pe’sh deyse’f ter deff. Dey got money, but Marse Judge Bascom got de idee dat dey hafter save it all fer ter buy back de ole Place. Dey pinch deyse’f day in en day out, en yistiddy when Miss Mildred say she gwine buy somepin’ fer Sunday, Marse Judge Bascom he say no; he ’low dat dey mus’ save en pinch en buy back de ole home. I done year him say dat twel it make me plum sick. An’ dar dey is naturally starvin’ deyse’f.

“Miss Mildred,” continued Jesse, “got idee dat her pa know what he talkin’ ’bout; but twix’ you en me, Marse Maje, dat ole man done about lose his min’. He ain’t so mighty much older dan what you is, but he mighty feeble in his limbs, en he mighty flighty in his head. He talk funny, now, en he don’t talk ’bout nothin’ skacely but buyin’ back the ole Place.”

“Jess,” said Major Bass in the smooth, insinuating tone that the negro knew so well, and that he had learned to fear, “ain’t I allers treated you right? Ain’t I allers done the clean thing by you?”

“Yes, Marse Maje, you is,” said the negro with emphasis.

“Well, then, Jess, what in the name of Moses do you want to come roun’ me wi’ such a tale as this? Don’t you know I know you clean through? Whyn’t you come right out an’ say you want the vittles fer yourself? What is the use whippin’ the devil ’roun’ the stump?”

“Marse Maje,” said Jesse, solemnly, “I’m a-tellin’ you de Lord’s trufe.” By this time he had begun to shave the major again.

“Well,” said Major Bass, after a pause, during which he seemed to be thinking, “suppos’n’ I was to let myself be took in by your tale, an’ suppos’n’ I was to give you some vittles, what have you got to put ’em in?”

“I got a basket out dar, Marse Maje,” said Jesse, cheerfully. “I brung it a purpose.”

“Why, tooby shore, tooby shore!” exclaimed the major, sarcastically. “Ef you was as forehanded as you is fore-thoughted you wouldn’t be a-runnin’ roun’ beggin’ vittles from han’ to mouth. But sence you are here you’d better make haste; bekaze ef your Miss Sarah comes back from church and ketches you here, she’ll kick up a purty rippit.”

The major was correct. As he and Jesse went into the pantry Mrs. Bass entered the front door. Flinging her bonnet and mantilla on a bed, she went to the back porch for a drink of water. The major heard her coming through the hallway, and, by a swift gesture of his hand, cautioned Jesse to be quiet.

“I’ll vow if the place ain’t left to take care of itself,” Mrs. Bass was saying. “Doors all open, chickens in the dining-room, cat licking the churn-dasher, and I’ll bet my existence that not a drop of fresh water has been put in the house-bucket since I left this morning. Everything gone to rack and ruin. I can’t say my prayers in peace at home, and if I go to church one Sunday in a month there ain’t no satisfaction in the sermon, because I know everything’s at loose ends on this whole blessed place. And if you’d go up the street right now, you’d find Mr. Bass a-setting up there at the tavern with the other loafers, a-giggling and a-snickering and a-dribbling at the mouth like one possessed.”

The major, in the pantry, winced visibly at this picture drawn true to life, and as he attempted to change his position he knocked a tin vessel from one of the shelves. He caught at it, and it fell to the floor with a loud crash.

“The Lord have mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Bass. “Is Satan and all his imps in the pantry, a-tearing down and a-smashing up things?” Not being a timid woman, she hastened to investigate. The sight she saw in the pantry struck her speechless. In one corner stood the major, holding up one foot, as if he was afraid of breaking something, and vainly trying to smile. In another corner stood Jesse, so badly frightened that very little could be seen of his face except the whites of his eyes. The tableau was a comical one. Mrs. Bass did not long remain speechless.

“Mr. Bass!” she exclaimed, “what under the shining sun are you doing colloguing with niggers in my pantry? If you want to collogue with niggers, why, in the name of common sense, don’t you take ’em out to the barn? What are you doing in there, anyhow? For mercy’s sake! have you gone stark-natural crazy? And if you ain’t, what brand-new caper are you trying to cut up?”

“Don’t talk so loud, Sarah,” said the major, wiping the cold perspiration from his face. “All the neighbors’ll hear you.”

“And why shouldn’t they hear me?” exclaimed Mrs. Bass. “What could be worse than for me to come home from church in broad daylight and find you penned up in my pantry, arm-in-arm with a nigger? What business have you got with niggers that you have to take ’em into my pantry to collogue with ’em? I’d a heap rather you’d ’a’ taken ’em in the parlor—a heap rather.”

Then Mrs. Bass’s eyes fell on the basket Jesse had in his hand, and this added to her indignation.

“I believe in my soul,” she went on, “that you are stealing the meat and bread out of your own mouth to feed that nigger. If you ain’t, what is the basket for?”

“Tut, tut, Sarah, don’t you go on so; you’ll make yourself the laughin’-stock of the town,” said the major in a conciliatory tone.

“And what’ll you be?” continued Mrs. Bass, relentlessly; “what’ll you be—a honeyin’ up with buck niggers in my pantry in the broad open daytime? Maybe you’ll have the manners to introduce me to your pardner. Who is he, anyhow?” Then Mrs. Bass turned her attention to the negro.

“Come out of my pantry, you nasty, trifling rascal! Who are you?”

“’T ain’t nobody but me, Miss Sa’ah,” said Jesse as he issued forth.

“You!” she exclaimed. “You are the nigger that was too biggity to stay with ’em that raised you up and took care of you, and now you come back and try to steal their bread and meat! Well! I know the end of the world ain’t so mighty far off.”

Mrs. Bass sank into a chair, exhausted by her indignation. Then the major took the floor, so to say, and showed that if he could be frightened by his wife, he could also, at the proper time, show that he had a will of his own. He explained the situation at some length, and with an emphasis that carried conviction with it. He made no mention of Jesse in his highly colored narrative, but left his wife to infer that while she was at church praying for peace of mind and not having her prayers answered to any great extent, he was at home engaged in works of practical charity. Nothing could have been finer than the major’s air of injured innocence, unless it was Jesse’s attitude of helpless and abandoned humiliation. The result of it was that Mrs. Bass filled the basket with the best she had in the house, and Jesse went home happy.

VI.

As for the Bascoms, they seemed to be getting along comfortably in spite of the harrowing story that Jesse had told to Major Jimmy Bass and to others. As a matter of fact, the shrewd negro had purposely exaggerated the condition of affairs in the Bascom household. He had an idea that the fare they lived on was too common and cheap for the representatives of such a grand family, forgetting, or not knowing, the privations they had passed through. The Judge insisted on the most rigid economy, and Mildred was at one with him in this. She was familiar with the necessity for it, but she could see that her father was anxious to push it to unmeasurable lengths. It never occurred to her, however, that her father’s morbid anxiety to repossess the Bascom Place was rapidly taking the shape of mania. This desire on the part of Judge Bascom was a part of his daughter’s life. She had heard it expressed in various ways ever since she could remember, and it was a part, not merely of her experience, but of her growth and development. She had heard the matter discussed so many times that it seemed to her nothing but natural that her father should one day realize the dream of his later years and reoccupy the old Place as proprietor.

Judge Bascom had no other thought than this. As he grew older and feebler, the desire became more ardent and overpowering. While his daughter was teaching her school, with which she had made quite a success, the Judge would be planning improvements to be added to his old home when he should own it again. Not a day passed—unless, indeed, the weather was stormy—that he did not walk in the neighborhood of the old Place. Sometimes he would go with his daughter, sometimes he would go alone, but it was observed by those who came to be interested in his comings and goings that he invariably refused to accept the invitation of Mr. Underwood to enter the house or to inspect the improvements that had been made. He persisted in remaining on the outside of the domain, content to wait for the day when he could enter as proprietor. He was willing to accept the position of spectator, but he was not willing to be a guest.

The culmination came one fine day in the fall, and it was so sudden and so peculiar that it took Hillsborough completely by surprise, and gave the people food for gossip for a long time afterwards. The season was hesitating as to whether summer should return or winter should be introduced. There was a hint of winter in the crisp morning breezes, but the world seemed to float summerwards in the glimmering haze that wrapped the hills in the afternoons. On one of these fine mornings Judge Bascom rose and dressed himself. His daughter heard him humming a tune as he walked about the room, and she observed also, with inward satisfaction, that his movements were brisker than usual. Listening a little attentively, she heard him talking to himself, and presently she heard him laugh. This was such an unusual occurrence that she was moved to knock at his door. He responded with a cheery “Come in!” Mildred found him shaved and dressed, and she saw that there was a great change in his appearance. His cheeks, usually so wan and white, were flushed a little and his eyes were bright. He smiled as Mildred entered, and exclaimed in a tone that she had not heard for years:—

“Good-morning, my daughter! And how do you find yourself this morning?”

It was the old manner she used to admire so when she was a slip of a girl—a manner that was a charming combination of dignity and affection.

“Why, father!” she exclaimed, “you must be feeling better. You have positively grown younger in a night.”

The Judge laughed until his eyes sparkled. “Yes, my dear, I am feeling very well indeed. I never felt better. I am happy, quite happy. Everything has been made clear to me. I am going to-day to transact some business that has been troubling me a long time. I shall arrange it all to-day—yes, to-day.”

The change that had come over her father was such a relief to Mildred that she asked him no questions. Now, as always, she trusted to his judgment and his experience. Jesse, however, was more critical. He watched the Judge furtively and shook his head.

“Mistiss,” he said to Mildred when he found an opportunity, “did you shave master?”

“Why, what a ridiculous question!” she exclaimed. “How could I shave him? It makes me shiver merely to touch the razors.”

“Well, Mistiss,” Jesse insisted, “ef I ain’t shave him, en you ain’t shave him, den who de name er goodness is done gone en done it?”

“He shaved himself, of course,” Mildred said. “He is very much better this morning. I noticed it the moment I saw him. I should think you could see it yourself.”

“I seed somepin’ nuther wuz de matter,” said Jesse. “Somepin’ ’bleege’ ter be de matter when I put him ter bed las’ night des like he wuz a baby, ma’m, en now yer he is gwine roun’ des ez spry ez de nex’ one. Yessum, somepin’ ’bleege’ ter be de matter. Yistiddy his han’s wuz shakin’ same like he got de polzy, ma’m, en now yer he is shavin’ hisse’f; dat what rack my min’.”

“Well, I hope you are glad he is so well, Jesse,” said Mildred in an injured tone.

“Oh, yessum,” said Jesse, scratching his head. “Lor’, yessum. Dey ain’t nobody no gladder dan what I is; but it come on me so sudden, ma’m, dat it sorter skeer me.”

“Well, it doesn’t frighten me,” said Mildred. “It makes me very happy.”

“Yessum,” replied Jesse deferentially. He made no further comment; but after Mildred had gone to attend to her school duties he made it his business to keep an eye on the Judge, and the closer the negro watched, the more forcibly was he struck by the great change that a night had made in the old man.

“I hear talk ’bout folks bein’ conjured inter sickness,” Jesse said to himself, “but I ain’t never hear talk ’bout dey bein’ conjured so dey git well.”

Certainly a great change had come over Judge Bascom. He stood firmly on his feet once more. He held his head erect, as in the old days, and when he talked to Jesse his tone was patronizing and commanding, instead of querulous and complaining. He seemed to be very fastidious about his appearance. After Mildred had gone to her school, Jesse was called in to brush the Judge’s hat and coat and to polish his shoes. The Judge watched this process with great interest, and talked to the negro in his blandest manner. This was not so surprising to Jesse as the fact that the Judge persisted in calling him Wesley; Wesley was the Judge’s old body-servant who had been dead for twenty years. It was Wesley this and Wesley that so long as Jesse was in the room, and once the Judge asked how long before the carriage would be ready. The negro parried this question, but he remembered it. He was sorely puzzled an hour afterwards, however, when Judge Bascom called him and said:—

“Wesley, tell Jordan he need not bring the carriage around for me. I will walk. Jordan can bring your mistress when she is ready.”

“Well,” exclaimed Jesse, when the Judge disappeared in the house, “dis bangs me! What de name er goodness put de ole man Jerd’n in his min’, which he died endurance er de war? It’s all away beyant me. Miss Mildred oughter be yer wid her pa right now, yit, ef I go atter her, dey ain’t no tellin’ what he gwine do.”

Jess cut an armful of wood, and then made a pretense of washing dishes, going from the kitchen to the dining-room several times. More than once he stopped to listen, but he could hear nothing. After a while he made bold to peep into the sitting-room. There was nobody there. He went into the Judge’s bedroom; it was empty. Then he called—“Marster! oh, Marster!” but there was no reply. Jess was in a quandary. He was not alarmed, but he was uneasy.

“Ef I run en tell Miss Mildred dat Marster done gone som’ers,” he said to himself, “she’ll des laugh en say I ain’t got no sense; en I don’t speck I is, but it make my flesh crawl fer ter hear folks callin’ on dead niggers ter do dis en do dat.”

Meanwhile the Judge had sallied forth from the house, and was proceeding in the direction of the Bascom Place. His step was firm and elastic, his bearing dignified. The acquaintances whom he met on his way stopped and looked after him when they had returned his Chesterfieldian salutation. He walked rapidly, and there was an air of decision in his movements that had long been lacking. At the great gate opening into the avenue of the Bascom Place the Judge was met by Prince the mastiff, who gave him a hospitable welcome, and gravely preceded him to the house. Miss Sophie, Mr. Underwood’s maiden sister, who was sitting in the piazza, engaged on some kind of feminine embroidery, saw the Judge coming, too late to beat a retreat, so she merely whipped behind one of the large pillars, gave her dress a little shake at the sides and behind, ran her hands over her hair, and appeared before the caller cool, calm, and collected.

“Good-morning, madam,” said the Judge in his grand way, taking off his hat.

“Good-morning, sir,” said Miss Sophie. “Have this chair?”

“No, no,” said the Judge, smiling blandly, and waving his hand. “I prefer my own chair—the large rocker with the cushion, you know. It is more comfortable.”

Somewhat puzzled, Miss Sophie fetched a rocker. It had no cushion, but the Judge seemed not to miss it.

“Why, where are the servants?” he asked, his brows contracting a little. “I could have brought the chair.”

“Mercy!” exclaimed Miss Sophie, “if I were to sit down and expect the negroes to wait on me, I’d have a good many disappointments during the day.”

“Yes,” said the Judge, “that is very true; very true. Where is Wesley?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Miss Sophie replied. “Is he a white man or a negro?”

“Wesley?” exclaimed the Judge. “Why, he’s a nigger; he’s my body-servant.”

“Isn’t this Judge Bascom?” Miss Sophie inquired, regarding him curiously.

“Yes, certainly, madam,” responded the Judge.

“Well, I’ve seen a negro named Jesse following you and your daughter about,” said Miss Sophie. “Perhaps you are speaking of Jesse.”

“No, no,” said the Judge. “I mean Wesley—or maybe you are only a visitor here. Your face is familiar, but I have forgotten your name.”

“I am Francis Underwood’s sister,” said Miss Sophie, with some degree of pride.

“Ah, yes!” the Judge sighed—“Francis Underwood. He is the gentleman who has had charge of the place these several years. A very clever man, I have no doubt. He has done very well, very well indeed; better than most men would have done. Do you know where he will go next year?”

“Now, I couldn’t tell you, really,” Miss Sophie replied, looking at the Judge through her gold-rimmed eye-glasses. “He did intend to go North this fall, but he’s always too busy to carry out his intentions.”

“Yes,” said Judge Bascom; “I have no doubt he is a very busy man. He has managed everything very cleverly here, and I wish him well wherever he goes.”

Miss Sophie was very glad when she heard her brother’s step in the hall; not that she was nervous or easily frightened, but there was something in Judge Bascom’s actions, something in the tone of his voice, some suggestion in his words, that gave her uneasiness, and she breathed a sigh of relief when her stalwart brother made his appearance.

Francis Underwood greeted his guest cordially—more cordially, Miss Sophie thought, than circumstances warranted; but the beautiful face of Mildred Bascom was not stamped on Miss Sophie’s mind as it was on her brother’s.

“I am sorry to put you to any inconvenience,” said the Judge, after they had talked for some time on commonplace topics—“very sorry. I have put the matter off until at last I felt it to be a solemn duty I owed my family to come here. Believe me, sir,” he continued, turning to the young man with some emotion—“believe me, sir, it grieves me to trouble you in the matter, but I could no longer postpone coming here. I think I understand and appreciate your attachment”—

“Why, my dear sir,” cried Francis Underwood in his heartiest manner, “it is no trouble at all. No one could be more welcome here. I have often wondered why you have never called before. Don’t talk about trouble and inconvenience.”

“I think I understand and appreciate your attachment for the Place,” the Judge went on as though he had not been interrupted, “and it embarrasses me, I assure you, to be compelled to trouble you now.”

“Well,” said Francis Underwood, with a hospitable laugh, “if it is no trouble to you, it certainly is none to me. As my neighbors around here say, when I call on them, ‘just make yourself at home.’”

Judge Bascom rose from his chair trembling. He seemed suddenly to be laboring under the most intense excitement.

“My home?” he almost shrieked—“make myself at home! In God’s name, man, what can you mean? It _is_ my home! It has always been my home! Everything here is mine—every foot of land, every tree, every brick and stone and piece of timber in this house. It is _all_ mine, and I will have it! I have come here to assert my rights!”

He panted with passion and excitement as he looked from Francis Underwood to Miss Sophie. He paused, as if daring them to dispute his claims. Miss Sophie, who had a temper of her own, would have given the Judge a piece of her mind, but she saw her brother regarding the old man with a puzzled, pitying expression. Then the truth flashed on her, and for an instant she felt like crying. Francis Underwood approached the Judge and led him gently back to his chair.

“Now that you are at home, Judge Bascom,” he said, “you need not worry yourself.”

“I tell you it is _mine_!” the Judge went on, beating the arm of his chair with his clenched fist; “it is mine. It has always been mine, and it will always be mine.”

Francis Underwood stood before the old man, active, alert, smiling. His sister said afterwards that she was surprised at the prompt gentleness with which her brother disposed of what promised to be a very disagreeable scene.

“Judge Bascom,” said the young man, swinging himself around on his boot-heels, “as your guest here, allow me to suggest that you ought to show me over the place. I have been told you have some very fine cows here.”

Immediately Judge Bascom was himself again. His old air of dignity returned, and he became in a moment the affable host.

“As my guests here,” he said, smiling with pleasure, “you and the lady are very welcome. We keep open house at the Bascom Place, and we are glad to have our friends with us. What we have is yours. I suppose,” he went on, still smiling, “some of our neighbors have been joking about our cows. We have a good many of them, but they don’t amount to much. They have been driven to the pasture by this time, and that is on the creek a mile and a half from here. I wonder where Wesley is! I think he is growing more worthless every year. He ought to be here with my daughter. The carriage was sent for her some time ago.”