"As I see it," rapped Suggs with his knife, "Professor Cardell has just got to a point that if he wasn't allowed to go on he'd have to go back to the beginning and start over. I've noticed that he is that kind of a speaker, and as time is--"
"Professor Cardell nor no other creature in pants can take my place,"
Mrs. Suggs fumed. "What is he saying, anyway? You men ought to be ashamed of yourselves, setting here like stranded catfish, swallowing all them foreign words and pretending you understand 'em. He whirls off a lot of jumbled talk and the last one of you look as wise as a sleepy ape in the corner of a cage in a circus."
"I see I ought to apologize." Professor Cardell wore a flush which looked as if it had its rise in scholastic pride rather than in rebuked humility. "I am well aware that my phraseology is interspersed with Latin, but that is due to my constant reading of the ancient classics and a habit I have when I am alone of holding converse in that beautiful tongue."
"Beautiful, a dog's hind foot!" cried Mrs. Suggs. "Listen to me, Professor Cardell. I can give you valuable advice, and I'm going to do it here and now. You'd make much more headway, and clothe and feed your wife and children a sight better, if you would throw all that gibberish overboard and talk stuff that folks understand. Now nobody else hasn't had the face to tell you the truth about this, but I will. You know when you put in application as principal of the new school, and was turned down so flat? Now I got it straight from the wife of one of the committee who was to select the teacher, that when you got up before that body of plain farm folks to show what you could do, and begun all that Latin chatter, you cooked your goose for good and all. And, while I hold nothing against you otherwise, I agree with them. I've always heard that Latin is a dead language, and if that is so, it ought to be used on dead folks and not on live ones. No living person can understand half you say, and therefore I claim that your talk on this matter ought not to go before what I've got to say in words so plain that a fool can understand."
"I yield the floor to the lady," the Professor said in confusion.
"_Prior tempore, prior jure._ She has it by rights, and I beg the pardon of the chair: and the assembly."
"Thank you, Professor," Mrs. Suggs said, as she picked at a few stray calf hairs on her sleeve. "I wouldn't insist if I wasn't sure that I've got something to say in plain English that you all will overlook. It is this, Mr. Chairman and gentlemen. I've had friendly talks with Sister Whaley and she has sort of let me in on her troubles and fears. Now there is just one thing that will happen if you botch this matter. Dick Whaley is the biggest fool and the wildest man when he is mad that ever lived, and, while you haven't thought of it, this thing may bring about bloodshed. He has already brought one man to death's door, and this will be the worst thing for Brother Whaley to stand of anything that ever crossed his path. He might have stood the talk about his son-in-law being an atheist, but he'll never put up with what is being said about selling his own child to a life of infamy, and the likelihood of his being the grandfather of stock of that sort. If you fellers go on with this, the innocent blood of more than one person may be on your heads.
Now I'm giving you fair warning, and I'm doing it in time to set you all to thinking. Serving God is our duty, but if you fellows go over to Dick Whaley's with this cock-and-bull yarn that you just heard from a man peddling through the country, you will be led there by the devil himself. That is all I've got to say."
She sat down. There was a lengthy silence. The men glanced from one to another in helpless inquiry of rapidly shifting eyes. Then a composite stare became fixed upon Suggs's troubled lineaments. He arose, shrugged, knitted his brows, and coughed.
"There is something in what my wife has said," he began, "and, on the whole, it may be that we ought to wait a little while before we take this thing up. The whole country is rife with it, and Brother Whaley is bound to hear it. He may act rash--in fact, now that I think of it, he will be sure to do it, and I'm going to be frank and say here and now that I'd rather not handle matches around as big a powder-can as this one is. So if you will bring in the cider and cakes, Sister Suggs, I'll adjourn this meeting _sine die_. By the way, that's Latin, isn't it, Professor?"
"Yes," the Professor answered, warmly grateful for being applied to, "but I'd prefer the less common and more erudite term of _re infecta_."
"Which means," replied Suggs, without intending to joke, "that we may be infected again?"
"Oh no, not that, by any means!" the Professor responded. "You quite miss the point. You see, my worthy brother, in the Latin language--"
But the cider and cake was being brought in; the men were rising to receive the glasses which were tinkling on a tray, and good humor and smug rectitude prevailed.
CHAPTER XXIX
One morning Tilly was occupied in the little front yard of her home.
Some rose-bushes needed attention, and with a pair of large scissors she was pruning the branches and cutting the weeds away with a garden trowel. Suddenly, happening to glance toward the town, she noticed one of the street-hacks approaching. There was no doubt that it was headed for the cottage, and a sudden qualm of alarm passed over her. Indeed, she feared that some accident might have happened to John, for he had told her that he was at work on a scaffold to which large stones were being hoisted. The negro cabman seemed to be in a hurry, for he was lashing his horse vigorously.
The cab stopped at the gate. The door was opened and Richard Whaley stepped out. He wore his best suit of clothes, but it was badly wrinkled and covered with dust. His black-felt hat was crushed, and its broad brim had been pulled down over his eyes. Tilly heard him order the man to wait, and the tone of his voice sent a shock of terror through her.
She had never heard him speak like that before, nor had she beheld such a look in his haggard face. His whole form drooped and quivered as with palsy as he came toward the gate.
"Father!" Tilly gasped, but she said no more, for the wild stare of the bloodshot eyes cowed her into silence. He swung open the gate and lunged into the yard.
"Where is that--where is John Trott?" he asked, panting, saliva like that of an idiot dripping from his shaking lip. "Where is he, I say?"
Tilly saw the negro staring curiously. She knew he was listening. Almost deprived of her wits, yet she was thoughtful, and she said:
"Come in, father; come in?"
"Oh, he is inside, is he?"
"Come in," Tilly answered, evasively. "Let's not talk out here."
She led the way into the sitting-room and tremblingly placed a chair for him, noting as she did so that his coarse shoes were untied, his hat without a band, his cravat awry, his shirt unclean. He refused the chair, and stood holding to the back of it with a besmudged hand. Then her alert eyes took in the bulge of the right-hand pocket of his short coat. A weighty article drew it sharply downward. She knew that it was a revolver, and her blood ran cold in her veins.
"Where is John Trott?" Whaley demanded, raspingly, and he looked toward the door leading into the dining-room. That room was darkened and he bent and peered toward it like a beast about to spring on its prey.
"He is not here, father," Tilly said, in almost a gentle whisper.
"Not here? Where has he gone?"
She hesitated and then answered, "Out in the country, father."
"I don't believe it." He turned, automatically laid his hand on his revolver, and left the room. She stood still. She heard him stalking from room to room, now striking against a chair or a table or tripping on a rug. Through the window she saw the cabman, his gaze on the cottage door. Whaley passed the window; he was walking around the house; his hand was in his right pocket; he stumbled over a tuft of grass, almost fell, and uttered a snort of fury. She raised a window at the side of the house, and saw him looking into the little woodshed in the rear of the lot. He turned and strode back to the cottage, entering at the kitchen door and clamping over the resounding floor back to her.
"Where is he? I say," he snarled.
"I told you, father," she said. "Why--what is the matter? What do you want? Why are you so excited?"
"You know well enough!" he cried. "Don't stand there and tell me that you don't know all or more than I do. Show him to me. I want to meet the white-livered atheistic agent of hell. And when I do meet him he'll never sneak into another respectable home like he did in mine. Do you know what is being said? Do you know what is spreading from county to county up home?"
"I can imagine," Tilly sighed. She felt faint. The objects in the room, the glaring fanatic, the sunny windows were swinging around her. She pulled herself together. She told herself she must be strong. Unless she conquered her weakness and held taut her wits her husband would be killed. What was to be done? Suddenly an idea came. She told herself that it might work. There was nothing else to do, and at any cost she must prevent the meeting of the two men. Another moment and the madman might be driving away in search for his victim.
"Father," she began, and she advanced to him and started to lay her hand on his arm, but he drew back and snarled like an infuriated beast.
"Did you know about that strumpet, Liz Trott, before you married her son?" he asked.
"No, father, I did not; but you don't understand John's position--"
"Understand the devil and all his imps! He'll understand me when I meet him; that will be enough."
"Father, sit down, please. John is away out in the country and won't be home for a long time. Please, please don't raise a row here and stir up this whole town. John is suffering enough without that. Now listen to me. You know I have some rights. I am a married woman now, and I've got a heart and soul in me. I've got the right as an innocent woman not to be dragged into a scandal like this. If you shot John in your present fury I'd have to be held as a witness, and you'd be put in jail. You are a religious man. Surely you ought to know that God would not forgive you for treating your own child as you are about to treat me. I am willing to go home with you right away--this minute! The cab is waiting, and we could catch the twelve-o'clock train. Surely you regretted that other shooting affair you had, and are grateful to God for sparing you from the worst. I'll pack up and go. It won't take me long."
Slowly and limply he sank into a chair. His soot-streaked hands clutched his knees and he groaned. She saw him shake his frowsy head and a tremor went through him. He was being twisted between the hands of two forces.
He was silent for several minutes, save for his loud breathing. Glancing through the window, Tilly saw that the negro had approached the gate.
She went to the window and leaned out.
"Can you tell me," she asked him, as he saw her and lifted his hat, "what time the Tennessee north-bound train leaves?"
"Twelve ten, miss," he answered, trying to read the suppressed mystery of her features. "Do you need me in dar? Dat man look' dangerous ter me, miss."
"Oh no." She shook her head and forced a smile. "But I want to ask--can you take us to the station, and a small trunk also?"
"Yes'm."
"Hold on!" It was Whaley's voice, and he had risen. "Tell that nigger to-- Let me speak to him. Do you think I came down here to--"
Tilly thrust her small person between him and the window. She laid two opposing hands on his breast and checked him.
"I'm going to save you from murder-- I will, I will!" she said, desperation filling her voice with power and causing his fierce stare to flicker. "If you meet my husband you will shoot him and the blood of a helpless, suffering, noble man will be on your head. You know what the brand on Cain was. You will bear it till you meet God with it on your brow. Do you think He'd forgive you? No, you'd have to burn for it in eternal torment, and you know it. You know you thanked God for sparing you before. Are you going to do even a worse thing now?"