The woman stood a moment, then she said gravely:
“Dat’s one thing you’s got to stop, Valet de Chambers. You can’t call me Roxy, same as if you was my equal. Chillen don’t speak to dey mammies like dat. You’ll call me ma or mammy, dat’s what you’ll call me—leastways when dey ain’t nobody aroun’. Say it!”
It cost Tom a struggle, but he got it out.
“Dat’s all right. Don’t you ever forgit it ag’in, if you knows what’s good for you. Now den, you has said you wouldn’t ever call it lies en moonshine ag’in. I’ll tell you dis, for a warnin’: if you ever does say it ag’in, it’s de las’ time you’ll ever say it to me; I’ll tramp as straight to de Judge as I kin walk, en tell him who you is, en prove it. Does you b’lieve me when I says dat?”
“Oh,” groaned Tom, “I more than believe it; I know it.”
Roxy knew her conquest was complete. She could have proved nothing to anybody, and her threat about the writings was a lie; but she knew the person she was dealing with, and had made both statements without any doubt as to the effect they would produce.
She went and sat down on her candle-box, and the pride and pomp of her victorious attitude made it a throne. She said—
“Now den, Chambers, we’s gwine to talk business, en dey ain’t gwine to be no mo’ foolishness. In de fust place, you gits fifty dollahs a month; you’s gwine to han’ over half of it to yo’ ma. Plank it out!”
But Tom had only six dollars in the world. He gave her that, and promised to start fair on next month’s pension.
“Chambers, how much is you in debt?”
Tom shuddered, and said—
“Nearly three hundred dollars.”
“How is you gwine to pay it?”
Tom groaned out—“Oh, I don’t know; don’t ask me such awful questions.”
But she stuck to her point until she wearied a confession out of him: he had been prowling about in disguise, stealing small valuables from private houses; in fact, he made a good deal of a raid on his fellow-villagers a fortnight before, when he was supposed to be in St. Louis; but he doubted if he had sent away enough stuff to realize the required amount, and was afraid to make a further venture in the present excited state of the town. His mother approved of his conduct, and offered to help, but this frightened him. He tremblingly ventured to say that if she would retire from the town he should feel better and safer, and could hold his head higher—and was going on to make an argument, but she interrupted and surprised him pleasantly by saying she was ready; it didn’t make any difference to her where she stayed, so that she got her share of the pension regularly. She said she would not go far, and would call at the haunted house once a month for her money. Then she said—
“I don’t hate you so much now, but I’ve hated you a many a year—and anybody would. Didn’t I change you off, en give you a good fambly en a good name, en made you a white gen’l’man en rich, wid store clothes on—en what did I git for it? You despised me all de time, en was al’ays sayin’ mean hard things to me befo’ folks, en wouldn’t ever let me forgit I’s a nigger—en—en—”
She fell to sobbing, and broke down. Tom said—“But you know I didn’t know you were my mother; and besides—”
“Well, nemmine ’bout dat, now; let it go. I’s gwine to fo’git it.” Then she added fiercely, “En don’t ever make me remember it ag’in, or you’ll be sorry, I tell you.”
When they were parting, Tom said, in the most persuasive way he could command—
“Ma, would you mind telling me who was my father?”
He had supposed he was asking an embarrassing question. He was mistaken. Roxy drew herself up with a proud toss of her head, and said—
“Does I mine tellin’ you? No, dat I don’t! You ain’t got no ’casion to be shame’ o’ yo’ father, I kin tell you. He wuz de highest quality in dis whole town—ole Virginny stock. Fust famblies, he wuz. Jes as good stock as de Driscolls en de Howards, de bes’ day dey ever seed.” She put on a little prouder air, if possible, and added impressively: “Does you ’member Cunnel Cecil Burleigh Essex, dat died de same year yo’ young Marse Tom Driscoll’s pappy died, en all de Masons en Odd Fellers en Churches turned out en give him de bigges’ funeral dis town ever seed? Dat’s de man.”
Under the inspiration of her soaring complacency the departed graces of her earlier days returned to her, and her bearing took to itself a dignity and state that might have passed for queenly if her surroundings had been a little more in keeping with it.
“Dey ain’t another nigger in dis town dat’s as high-bawn as you is. Now den, go ’long! En jes you hold yo’ head up as high as you want to—you has de right, en dat I kin swah.”
X
The Nymph Revealed
All say, “How hard it is that we have to die”—a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.
Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
When angry, count four; when very angry, swear.
Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
Every now and then, after Tom went to bed, he had sudden wakings out of his sleep, and his first thought was, “Oh, joy, it was all a dream!” Then he laid himself heavily down again, with a groan and the muttered words, “A nigger! I am a nigger! Oh, I wish I was dead!”
He woke at dawn with one more repetition of this horror, and then he resolved to meddle no more with that treacherous sleep. He began to think. Sufficiently bitter thinkings they were. They wandered along
