Part 5

“I ’low’d ’twuz you,” she said, “an’ I’m mighty glad you come.” She started to pour the water from can to pitcher, when suddenly she stayed her hand. With the exclamation, “Well, ef dis don’t bang my time!” she went to the head of the stairs and cried out: “Miss Vallie! Miss Vallie! you don’t want no town folks stuck in dish yer back room, does you?”

“Why, certainly not!” cried the lady. “What could father have been thinking of?”

“Shoo! he like all de men folks,” responded Aunt Minervy Ann.

With that she seized my valise with one hand, and, carrying the can of water in the other, escorted me to one of the front rooms. It was an improvement on the back room only because it had more windows to admit the air and light. I put in a word for the Major, which I hoped would be carried to the ears of the daughter.

“The Major gave me that room because he wanted to treat me as if I were one of the home folks. Now you’ve brought me here, and I’ll feel as uncomfortable as if I were company, sure enough.”

“Dey’s sump’n in dat, I ’speck,” replied Aunt Minervy Ann, laughing; “but, lawsy, massy! you done been in dis house too much ter talk dat-a-way. When kin folks come home, we allus gin um de bes’ dey is fer de fus’ week er so. Atter dat dey kin rustle ’roun’ fer deyse’f.”

It is hardly necessary to say that Aunt Minervy Ann took very good care that I should want for none of those little attentions that sharpen the appreciation of a guest; and, in her case, obtrusiveness was not a fault, for her intentions shone clearly and unmistakably through it all.

Major Perdue had the art of entertainment at his fingers’ ends, which, though it is very simple, not one man in a hundred learns. It is the knack of leaving the guest to his own devices without seeming to do so. Most fortunate in his gifts is the host who knows how to temper his attentions!

In his efforts to get the fair under way, Paul Conant found it impossible to come to dinner, but sent his apologies.

“You’ll think it is a mighty small concern when you see it,” said the Major, “but it takes all that Paul can do to keep it from getting into a tangle. He has to be here, there, and everywhere, and there hasn’t been a minute for a week or more but what forty people were hollering at him at once, and forty more pulling and hauling him about. If he wasn’t a steam-engine, he couldn’t hold out half an hour.”

“Well, he’ll soon straighten matters out,” said I, “and then they’ll stay so.”

“That’s so,” remarked the Major; “but when that’s done, he’ll have to rush around from post to pillar to keep ’em straight.”

“Did he seem to be greatly worried?” Valentine asked.

“No-o-o-o,” replied the Major, slowly and hesitatingly, “but I’m afear’d his shoulder has begun to trouble him again.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling, apparently lost in thought.

“Why should you think that, father?”

“Once or twice, whilst he was rustling about I saw him fling his hand to his shoulder and hold it there, and I’m mightily afear’d it’s hurting him.” The Major drew a deep sigh as he spoke, and silence fell on all. It was brief, but it was long enough for one to know that an unpleasant subject had been touched on—that there was something more behind it all than a pain in Conant’s shoulder. Aunt Minervy Ann, who was equal to every emergency, created a diversion with the baby, and the Major soon pulled himself together.

Paul Conant came home to supper, and in the sitting-room, before the meal was announced, I observed that the Major was as solicitous about him as a mother is of her baby. His eyes were constantly on his son-in-law, and if the latter showed any sign of worry, or frowned as if in pain, a shadow would pass over the Major’s genial face.

This intense solicitude was something out of the usual order, and I wondered what was behind it. But the next day it was forgotten, nor was it remembered until Aunt Minervy Ann reminded me of it. I had been faithful in my attendance on the fair, had listened patiently to the speeches, and had then tried to refresh my benumbed faculties with such fare as could be found on the grounds—barbecue, pickles, and ginger-cakes. But the occasion had been too much for me, and so, about two o’clock in the afternoon, I decided to return to my quarters at Major Perdue’s home and rest my weary limbs. The very thought of the quiet and cool house was refreshing, and so, without waiting for a conveyance, I set out on foot, going through the woods in preference to the public highway, thereby cutting the distance short by nearly a mile.

A great many others had taken advantage of the short-cut through the woods, so that I had no lack of company. Among them I noticed Aunt Minervy and her husband, Hamp, the latter carrying the Conant baby, which, having had enough of the pomps and vanities of this life for the time being, was now fast asleep. I soon came up with the trio, and we went along home together.

“You toughed it out mighty well, suh,” remarked Aunt Minervy Ann, after some talk about the various attractions of the fair. “Up dar in Atlanty deze kinder doin’s would be laughed at, I ’speck, but hit’s de bes’ we-all kin do. Me an’ Miss Vallie had some truck dar, speshually dat ar grape jelly on de right han’ side. Ef dat jelly don’t git de blue ribbon er sump’n better, hit’ll be bakaze dem ar jedgment men ain’t got no sense—I don’t keer who dey is. Ain’t you see dat ar quilt hangin’ up dar wid a pattern in it like a well-whorl, only de middle er de whorl was shape like de mornin’ star? Dat ar quilt is older dan what you is, suh—lots older. Me an’ Mistiss made dat quilt long ’fo’ Miss Vallie wuz born, an’ dish yer baby’ll tell you she ain’t no chicken. Ef dey’s any purtier quilt on dat hill dey had it hid ter-day; dey ain’t brung it out whar folks kin look at it. I dunno much, but I knows dat much.”

We reached the house after awhile, and I lost no time in stretching myself out on a lounge that sat invitingly in the hall behind the stairway. It was not the coolest place in the world; but, really, when one is fagged out, it is unnecessary to try to find all the comforts of life in one spot. Sleep fell on me unawares, and when I awoke, Aunt Minervy Ann was sitting near the head of the lounge fanning me. Such courtesy was surprising, as well as pleasing, but I chid her for taking so much trouble, for I had slept nearly two hours. But she made light of it, saying she had nothing else to do, the baby being in his cradle and sleeping like a log.

Then, to enjoy a smoke, I drew a rocking-chair into the back porch, and proceeded to fill my pipe with what I regarded as a very good brand of tobacco, offering some to Aunt Minervy Ann. She soon found her pipe—clay bowl and reed stem—cleaned it out carefully and filled it from my pouch.

“It look mighty pale, suh,” she remarked. “I ’speck dey steam it ’fo’ dey mash it up.” She seated herself on the top step, lit her pipe, took a few whiffs, and then shook her head. “’Tain’t nigh rank ’nuff for me, suh. Hit tas’e like you er dreamin’ ’bout smokin’ an’ know all de time ’tain’t nothin’ but a dream.” She knocked the tobacco out, and then refilled the pipe with the crumbs and cutting from the end of a plug. This she smoked with an air of supreme satisfaction.

“I ’speck you got de idee dat I better be seein’ ’bout supper, stidder settin’ up here lookin’ biggity. But ’tain’t no use, suh. Marse Tumlin and Miss Vallie never is ter come home dis day less’n dey bring Marse Paul wid um. I done hear um sesso. An’ I know mighty well, deyer gwine ter come back late, bekaze Paul Conant’s one er dem kinder folks what go twel dey can’t go, an’ when dey git down dey make motions like dey gwine. Dey puts me in mind uv a lizard’s tail, suh. Knock it off, an’ it’ll hop ’bout an’ work an’ wiggle plum twel de sun go down.”

I suggested that the illustration was somewhat inapt (though not in those words), for the reason that Paul Conant’s energy was not expended blindly. But I found that Aunt Minervy knew what she was saying.

“I ain’t talkin’ ’bout his own business, suh, bekaze dey ain’t nobody beat ’im at dat. No, suh; I’m talkin’ ’bout dem ar doin’s out dar at de fair groun’s. He’s a-workin’ at dat lots harder dan he has ter work fer hisse’f. Maybe you tuck notice uv de way dem yuther folks done out dar, suh. Dey stood ’round wid dey mouf open, an’ de ribbon pinned on der coats, an’ when sump’n had ter be done, dey’d call out fer Conant. It ’uz ‘Conant!’ here an’ ‘Conant!’ dar, an’ ef Conant wuz out er hearin’ de whole shebang had ter stop right still an’ wait twel Conant kin be dragged up. I watched um p’intedly, suh, an’ it’s des like I tell you.”

Aunt Minervy Ann’s characterization of the directors was so acute and so unexpected that I laughed—not at what she said, but at the vivid picture of a lot of helpless men standing about, full of dignity, and yet waiting for young Conant to tell them what to do.

“You may laugh, suh,” Aunt Minervy Ann went on with a little frown, “but I’m tellin’ you de Lord’s trufe. I kep’ my eyes on um, an’ ’twuz dat-a-way fum soon dis mornin’ ’twel I got mad an’ come home. You kin ax Hamp, suh, an’ he’ll tell you de same. I reckon you heer’d Marse Tumlin las’ night at de table ax Marse Paul ef his shoulder hurted ’im. I know you did, suh, bekaze I tuck notice how you looked, an’ I tried ter shake de baby up so he’d cry, but dat wuz one er de times, suh, when he wouldn’t be shuck up. Any udder time dat chil’ would er laid back an’ blated twel you’d hafter put yo’ fingers in yo’ years. I wuz mad wid ’im, suh, but I wuz bleedz ter laugh. Chillun mighty funny. When you don’t want um ter cry, dey’ll holler der heads off, an’ when you want um ter cry, dey’ll laugh in yo’ face. I bet you dey’s a blue place on dat baby’s arm whar I pinched ’im, but he didn’t no mo’ min’ it dan nothin’.”

“Well,” said I, “there was something peculiar in the way all of you looked and acted when the Major asked about Mr. Conant’s shoulder. It was a very simple question.”

“Ah, Lord!” exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann, raising her right hand on high, “dey better ax ’bout dat shoulder. Yesser! ev’y day an’ ev’y night, an’ in betwixt times.”

“Is Mr. Conant troubled with rheumatism?” I inquired.

“Rheumatiz! bless yo’ soul, honey! Ef ’twuz rheumatiz dey wouldn’t be no Paul Conant ’round dis house, ner no Conant baby.”

Here is something decidedly interesting, I thought, but held my peace, knowing that whatever it was would be more quickly disclosed if there were any disclosure to make.

“Ain’t you never hear ’bout it, suh? Well dat bangs me! An’ you right up dar in Atlanty, too! No, suh; you must er been in Savanny, bekaze ’twuz de town talk in Atlanty. Anyhow, wharsomever you wuz er might er been, dey ain’t no rheumatiz de matter wid Marse Paul Conant’s shoulder-blade. I know dat much, an’ I know it mighty well, bekaze I wuz right here in dis house, an’ nowhars else ’cep’n ’roun’ de lot an’ up town an’ back.

“Well, den, suh, ef you ain’t never hear ’bout dat, I most know you ain’t never hear tell er how I run’d off, and how I run’d back, bekaze nobody ain’t never talk ’bout dat—leas’ways, not as I knows un.”

I declared to Aunt Minervy Ann that I never heard a whisper of it. She leaned back against the railing of the steps and drew a long whiff from her pipe.

“’Tain’t no use ter tell you, suh, how times wuz right atter de war. You wuz right in um, an’ ef you don’t know, it’s bekaze you didn’t look ’roun’ an’ see um. I hear um say, suh, dat niggers wuz po’ when dey come free. Dey wuz, suh; dey wuz rank pizen po’; but dey never wuz in dis worl’ a nigger ez po’ ez some er our white folks wuz. You may shake yo’ haid, suh, but I’m givin’ you de straight gov’nment trufe. Niggers is use ter bein’ po’, an’ dey never wuz dat po’ dat dey can’t scuffle ’roun’ an’ make out somehow. Dey er been po’ so long dey er usen ter it. But white folks what been rich! I hope de Lord’ll call me home ’fo’ I see again what I done saw in dem days. I know in reason, suh, dat I seed mo’ er de trouble dan what you did, kaze you couldn’t go in at de back gates like me; an’ what trouble folks does have dey allers keep it somers betwix’ de bedroom an’ de back gate.

“De Perdues wa’n’t no wuss off dan nobody else. Marse Tumlin had dish yer house an’ lot, an’ de plantation, an’ some lan’ way off yander. But all de hosses an’ mules an’ cattle been tuck off, an’ de niggers all gone. Ef he’d er stayed on de plantation, de niggers would ’a’ been dar yit, but stay he wouldn’t, an’ stay he didn’t, an’ so dar he wuz.

“Do sump’n? What he gwine do? Fo’ de big turmoil he done some lawin’ an’ a heap er farmin’. Leas’ways my ol’ Mistiss done de farmin’, an’ Marse Tumlin, he done de lawin’. He had ’im a office here in town, an’ on set days he’d come in an’ look arter de cases what he had. But how anybody gwine ter do any lawin’ dat-a-way? Marse Tumlin ain’t keerin’ whedder he git one case er none. He ain’t bleedze ter do no lawin’. An’ den ’pon top er dat he went off whar dey battlin’, an’ dar he stayed, an’ when he come back, look like de kinder lawin’ what he use ter do done gone outer fashion. Ef he hadn’t er been holp out, suh, I dunner what’d ’a’ come un ’im. An’ ’twa’n’t only Marse Tumlin. Dey wuz a whole passel un um, too young ter die an’ too ol’ ter win money in dem kinder times. Ef you ain’t ol’ ’nuff ter ’member dem times, suh, you kin thank de Lord, kaze dey sho did look like tetotal ruination.

“Now, you know yo’se’f, suh, dat you can’t eat a house an’ lot an’ live dar too; an’ you can’t eat lan’ des dry so less’n you got a mighty appetite fer dirt. Whyn’t he sell de lan’? You oughter be de las’ one ter ax me dat, suh. Who gwine buy it? Dem what ain’t got lan’ ain’t had no money, an’ dem what had money sholy lived a mighty long ways fum here. Day in an’ day out, suh, I wuz de wuss pester’d nigger you ever laid eyes on. I ain’t know what ter do.

“An’ den ’pon top er dat, dar wuz Hamp, my ol’ man. When freedom come out, he tuck de notion dat we better go off some’rs an’ change de name what we got so dey can’t put us back in slave’y. Night an’ day it fair rankle in his min’, an’ he kep’ groanin’ an’ growlin’ ’bout it twel I got stirred up. I oughtn’t ter tell it, suh, but hit’s de Lord’s trufe. I got mad, I did, an’ I tol’ Hamp I’d go. An’ den I wa’n’t doin’ no good stayin’ here. ’Twuz des one mo’ mouf ter feed, an’ mo’ dan one, countin’ Hamp. So, bimeby, one day, when I wuz sorter fretted, I tol’ Hamp ter go on out dar in de country, whar his daddy live at, an’ I’d meet ’im dar ’fo’ night.

“When de time come, I went in de house an’ hunt fer Miss Vallie. She ’uz settin’ in de parlor by de winder, but behime de curtain like, so nobody can’t see ’er. She ’uz settin’ dar wid ’er han’s crossed on ’er lap, an’ she look so little, an’ pale, an’ weak, dat I come mighty nigh gwine right back in de kitchen. But she seed me too quick. Den I up’n tell ’er dat I’m gwine out in de country, ter whar Hamp daddy live at. She look at me right hard an’ say, ‘When you comin’ back, Aunt Minervy Ann?’ I ’low, ‘I’m comin’ back des ez soon ez I kin make my ’rangements, honey.’ She say, ‘Well, I hope you’ll have a good time while you er gone.’ I ’low, ‘Thanky, ma’m.’ Wid dat I went an’ got my bundle an’ put opt fum dar—an’ I ain’t look back nudder, bekaze I had a mighty weakness in de knees, an’ a mighty risin’ in my th’oat.

“I went on down de road, an’ ef anybody had so much ez said _boo_ ter me, I’d ’a’ turned right ’roun’ an’ gone back home. I went on, I did, twel I come ter de mile branch. I see somebody crossin’ on de log, an’ when I come up wid um, who should it ’a’ been but Marse Tumlin. An’ he had _one chicken_! He had been out ter de plantation—sev’m mile ef its fifty yards—an’ here he wuz comin’ back wid one chicken—an’ him a walkin’, him dat use ter ride ’roun’ in his carriage! Walkin’ an’ totin’ one little chicken! Man, suh! I don’t never want ter feel again like I felt den. Whedder ’twuz de chicken, er what, I never did see Marse Tumlin Perdue look ez ol’ an’ ez weasly ez he did den. He look at me an’ sorter laugh like I done cotch ’im doin’ sump’n he ain’t got no business ter do. But dey wa’n’t no laugh in me; no, suh, not by a jugful.

“He say, ‘Hello, Minervy Ann! whar _you_ gwine?’ I ’low, I did, ‘I’m des gwine out yander whar Hamp kinnery live at.’

“He sorter pull his goatee, an’ look down at de dus’ on his shoes—an’ dey wuz fair kiver’d wid it—an’ den he say, ‘Well, Minervy Ann, I wish you mighty well. You sho is done a mighty good part by me an’ mine. Ef yo’ Miss Mary wuz ’live she’d know what ter say—I don’t, ’cep’ dis’—he straighten up an’ stretch out his han’—‘’cep’ dis: whenever you want ter come back home, you’ll fin’ de do’ open. Ef you come at night, des knock. We’ll know yo’ knock.’

“You ain’t never seed no fool nigger ’oman cut up, is you? Well, ef you does see one, suh, I hope ter goodness ’twon’t be me! Marse Tumlin ain’t no mo’n got de words out’n his mouf, suh, ’fo’ I tuck de bundle what I had in my han’, an’ flung it fur ez I could send it.

“Marse Tumlin look at me hard, an’ den he say, ‘Dam ef I don’t b’lieve youer crazy!’ Time he say it, I ’low, ‘_I don’t keer er dam ef I is!_’

“Yasser! I say it sho, an’ den I drapt down on de groun’ dar an’ holler an’ cry like somebody wuz beatin’ de life out’n me. Marse Tumlin stood dar pullin’ at his goatee all dat time, an’ bimeby I got up. I wa’n’t feelin’ much better, but I done had my cry an’ dat’s sump’n. I got up, I did, an’ start back de way I come.

“Marse Tumlin say, ‘Whar you gwine, Minervy Ann? I ’low, ‘I’m gwine back home—dat’s whar I’m gwine!’ He say, ‘Pick up yo’ bundle.’ Wid dat I turn ’roun’ on him an’ ’low, ‘I ain’t gwine ter do it! Ef it hadn’t er been fer dat ar muslin dress in dar, what Miss Vallie make over an’ gi’ me, I’d been at home right dis minute.’

“He ’low, ‘What dat got ter do wid it, Minervy Ann?’ I make answer, ‘Bekaze ol’ Satan make me want ter put it on an’ sho’ off ’fo’ dem country niggers out dar whar Hamp’s folks live at.’ Wid dat I start back home, but Marse Tumlin holler at me—‘Minervy Ann, take dis chicken.’ I tuck it, I did, an’ made off up de road. Bimeby I sorter flung my eye ’roun’, an’, bless gracious! dar wuz Marse Tumlin comin’ ’long totin’ my bundle. Well, suh, it flewed all over me like fier. I got so mad wid myse’f dat I could ’a’ bit a piece out’n my own flesh.

“I waited in de road twel he come up, an’ den I snatched de bundle out er his han’. I ’low, ‘I ain’t gwine ter have you totin’ none er my bundles in de public road—no, ner no chickens, needer.’ He say, ‘Well, don’t fling it ’way, Minervy Ann. De time may come when yo’ Miss Vallie’ll need dat ar muslin dress.’

“When we got back home I went in de kitchen, an’ fix ter clean an’ kill de chicken. I ’speck Marse Tumlin must ’a’ tol’ Miss Vallie ’bout it, bekaze ’twan’t long ’fo’ I hear her runnin’ ’long de plank walk ter de kitchen. She whipt in de do’ she did, an’ grab me an’ cry like I done riz fum de dead. Well, suh, niggers ain’t got no sense, you kin take um de world over. No sooner is Miss Vallie start ter cry dan I chuned up, an’ dar we had it.

“’Bout dat time, Marse Tumlin, he come out—men folks is allers gwine some’rs dey got no business. He ’low, ‘What you’all blubberin’ ’bout?’ I make answer, ‘We er cryin’ over dese two chickens.’ He ax, ‘What two chickens?’ I ’low, ‘I’m cryin’ over dis un, kaze it’s so little, an’ Miss Vallie cryin’ over de one what you ain’t brung.’ He say, ‘Well, I be dang!’ an’ wid dat he went back in de house.

“An’ den, atter supper, such ez ’twuz, here come Hamp, an’ he say he come ter lay de law down. I ’speck I like my ol’ man ’bout ez good ez any udder ’oman what’s lawfully married, but ef I didn’t put a flea in Hamp year dat night you may shoot me dead. Ef he’d ’a’ waited a day er two, hit might er been diffunt; but, manlike, he had ter come at de wrong time, an’ he ain’t open his mouf ’fo’ I wuz fightin’ mad. Ol’ Miss allers use ter tell me I wuz a bad nigger when I got my dander up, but I never did look at myse’f dat-a-way twel dat night.

“Well, Hamp he come an’ stood in de do’, but I ain’t say nothin’. Den he come in de kitchen, an’ stan’ ’roun’, but still I ain’t say nothin’. Den he sot down next de chimbley, but all dat time I ain’t say nothin’. He look right pitiful, suh, an’ ef I hadn’t been mad, I’d ’a’ been sorry fer ’im. But I ain’t say nothin’.

“Bimeby, he ’low, ‘’Nervy’—he allers call me ’Nervy—‘’Nervy, whyn’t you go whar you say you gwine?’ I flung myse’f ’roun’ at ’im an’ say, ‘Bekaze I ain’t choosen ter go—dar you got it!’ He ’low, ‘Well, you start ter go, kaze I seed you!’ I say, ‘Yes, an’ I start ter come back, an’ you’d ’a’ seed dat ef you’d ’a’ looked right close.’ He ’low, ‘’Nervy, don’t you know dem folks in yander’ll think you b’long to um?’ I say, ‘I does. Ain’t I free? Can’t I b’long to um ef I wanter? I’d like ter see de one ter hender me. What dey done ter you? An’ what’s I done ter you dat you want ter drag me ’way fum my white folks? You go drag you’se’f—you can’t drag _me_.’ He ’low, ‘Dey done begin ter call you a white-folks nigger, an’ dey say you gwine back on yo’ own color.’”

Aunt Minervy Ann paused here to laugh. “Mad ez I wuz, suh, de minnit Hamp said dat I know’d I had ter change my chune. I ’low, ‘I know right pine-blank who tol’ you dat. ’Twan’t nobody in de roun’ worl’ but ol’ Cely Ensign, an’ she ain’t tell you dat in comp’ny, needer. She tol’ you whar nobody can’t hear ’er but you. Don’t you fret! des ez soon ez I git thoo wid supper, I’m gwine ’roun’ dar an’ drag ’er out an’ gi’ ’er de wuss frailin’ any nigger ever got sence de overseers quit bizness. I ain’t fergot dat ar’ possum you toted off ter her house.’

“Well, suh, I had ’im! He caved in. He ’low, ‘’Twan’t no ’possum; ’twan’t nothin’ in de roun’ worl’ but a late watermillion.’ I holler, ‘_Ah-yi! watermillion!_ Well, den, ef you want ter drag anybody off fum der white folks, go an’ drag ol’ Cely Ensign—bekaze you can’t drag me.’

“We jowered right smart, but I had Hamp in a cornder. He went off an’ stayed maybe a mont’, an’ den he come back, an’ atter ’while he got ’lected ter de legislature. He done mighty well, suh. He got nine dollars a day, an’ ev’y Sat’dy night he’d fetch de bigges’ part uv it home. ’Twuz mighty handy, too, suh, kaze ef hadn’t been fer dat legislatur’ money I dunner what me and Miss Vallie an’ Marse Tumlin would ’a’ done.

“Dat wuz ’bout de time, suh, dat de town boys wanter ku-kluck Hamp, an’ you an’ Marse Tumlin went out an’ ku-klucked dem. Hamp ain’t never forgot it, suh. He’d walk fum here to Atlanty fer you ef ’twould do you any good. He don’t say much, but I know how he feel. I hear ’im calling me now, suh.”

“You haven’t told me about Paul Conant,” I suggested.

“I’ll tell you, suh, ’fo’ you go.”

In half a minute I heard Aunt Minervy Ann quarrelling and laughing at Hamp in the same breath.

IV

HOW SHE JOINED THE GEORGIA LEGISLATURE

The second day of the fair, I saw more of Paul Conant. He insisted on taking charge of me, and, in his buggy, we visited every part of the fair-grounds, which had been laid out on a most liberal scale. When dinner-time came I was glad enough to excuse myself and hurry back to the refreshing shade of Major Perdue’s veranda. There I found Aunt Minervy Ann swinging the baby in a hammock.