The Shorn Lamb/Chapter 19
Chapter 19
AUNT PEACHY GLOATS
Philip and his mother met Major Taylor near The Quarters. Philip turned his horse from the clay road to give his neighbor room to pass. To the young man's cordial bow and cheery "Good afternoon, sir!" the Major gave only a formal bend of the head and a perfunctory touching of his hat. He did not stop, but drove rapidly by.
"Now what is the matter?" asked Philip. "Major Taylor has been so cordial and kind to me when I have met him lately; I can't see why he is so stiff and formal now."
"Oh, my dear, I am afraid it is something to do with your father and that old paper he found about the hub factory. He and Aunt Peachy have been whispering about it a lot lately, and when Mr. Spottswood Taylor was over here that time they were both so under the influence of that mountain whisky she said terrible things. You thought she was not responsible and did not know what she was talking about, but I believed all the time she did."
Elizabeth was close to tears. She had seen for some time that her little Betsy's fancy was leaning decidedly towards the handsome Spottswood Taylor, and she could not but feel that the match would be advantageous. She longed to have her daughter free from the baleful surroundings of The Hedges. Of course, if her husband plunged into what she could not but consider this disgraceful business of ruining the fortunes of the Taylors, one could hardly expect them to receive a daughter of the house of Bolling with open arms.
Betsy, her mother divined, was beginning to show decided signs of being in love. She was a little moody, more particular than usual about her appearance and dress, finding new ways to arrange her pretty hair and forever laundering a blue linen dress, for which Rebecca had told her Spottswood had expressed admiration.
Elizabeth did not try to persuade herself that the Taylors would approve of the match, but she was sure that her dear Betsy could eventually make even the austere Evelyn and Myra like her if she were married to their brother. Betsy was so sweet, so bright and gay, so good-humored and obliging. Major Taylor already liked her girl. Of course he had not contemplated her as a daughter-in-law, and he might have raised objections, but no doubt those objections could have been overcome. But now—now that Betsy's father was preparing to do this heinous thing, Major Taylor could hardly be expected to consent to the match.
When they reached home it was easy to gather from Aunt Peachy's chuckling innuendoes what had occurred during the visit of the master of Mill House. Philip had it out with his father, plainly showing his disgust at what he was contemplating.
"You can't mean that you will take advantage of this old lease you have found to try to ruin Major Taylor! You say you can claim all the buildings on the land by law? Well, father, if such is the case, there is something mighty rotten about the law. You will lose the respect of the whole county if you keep to the letter of such a law."
"Listen ter the young marster a tryin' ter boss he pappy! Tellin' he pappy he don't know he own business!" cackled Aunt Peachy, who had slipped into the room after listening at the keyhole. She never lost an opportunity to make Rolfe Bolling think Philip was belittling him and in that way she kept ever in the father's heart a certain resentment towards his son.
"Don't yer listen ter him, my baby! Money is what folks respect an' you go on an' git all er ol' Bob Taylor's money."
Aunt Peachy bitterly resented the fact that the people of her own race, even her own blood, had failed in their allegiance to her, who had been queen for a hundred years. Rolfe Bolling was the one person over whom she held undisputed sway, and more than ever did she rule him with a rod of iron. When a third person was present she made a show of respect for him, but when they were alone he might in truth have been her baby, so much did she treat him like one.
The old negress spent her nights in weaving weird spells, making strange-looking figures of putty, tying up bits of bone and hair in filthy rags, which next day she concealed about the house under carpets or mattresses, behind pictures, in Elizabeth's work basket, even in Philip's pockets when she could get to them without being caught. The remarkable thing about Aunt Peachy was that she believed in her own powers of magic, and Rolfe Bolling believed in them, too. He was afraid of his old nurse. His feeling for her was divided between hate and love. He had loved her until lately and now there were times when he really hated her. That was when he was sober. At such times he took pleasure in the fact that his son had the upper hand on the farm and that the darkeys obeyed his orders instead of Aunt Peachy's.
The old woman would reproach him with his weakness in letting Philip be the master, but he would look slyly at her and say, "If you ain't able ter conquer the boy, how you 'spec' me ter do it?"
He watched the work of restoration on the desecrated lawn and sunken garden and said nothing. Perhaps a spark of the noble founder of the race was still smouldering in his soul and all pride of family and tradition was not dead within him. He understood now that Aunt Peachy had persuaded him to have the lawn plowed up, the trees cut and the garden given over to the hogs to spite his wife and Philip. He had not quite understood it at the time he gave the orders and Aunt Peachy's offspring carried them out. He could remember very little about having been a party to the vandalism. It had occurred after the arrival of a fresh jug from the mountains, and he had not been in a state to remember what took place. He could recall that when the great trees were felled he had very much the same feeling of finality and sorrow that had been with him at his father's funeral. He was glad that Philip had planted more trees in the old spots—glad, and he hoped they would live and grow in spite of the spells against them that Aunt Peachy was making.
The old woman was too feeble and too fearful of the cold to go out on the lawn to do any damage to the trees, but she took a dry branch that was brought in with the fire wood, and wrapping it with carpet ravelings and smearing it with rancid fat, she mumbled over it inarticulate and cryptic words and then solemnly burned it. Afterwards she announced to her master that the trees Philip had planted would surely die. and now with March the sap had begun to rise in the young trees and a faint, almost imperceptible color on the tip ends of the branches gave promise of budding leaves. The old woman noted this with fury. Hers had been a religion of hate. Always had she worked charms for evil, for the undoing of her enemies, and when misfortune befell anyone she was quite confident that she was responsible for it. Her followers had believed in her power until lately. Every ill that flesh was heir to they had traced to the dread machinations of Mam' Peachy and she was as firm a believer in her powers as any one of the darkeys in the county.
Aunt Peachy had never forgiven Aunt Pearly Gates for breaking up the Voodoo ceremony held down in the clearing by the river. She had never forgiven her and had spent many hours and great ingenuity in the charms and spells she was determined to work against the pious Pearly Gates. Decade after decade had passed and still she never forgot the ignominy she had felt when her frenzied meeting had been turned into a Christian ceremony. She kept on trying to bring misfortune on her enemy by the weaving of many and various spells. Finally the news came to her that Pearly Gates had had a stroke of paralysis. The doctor had given some hope that she might recover the use of her limbs, but Aunt Peachy believed she could keep her in the bed forever. She was sure she had accomplished this evil thing. She immediately went to see her poor victim and gloated over the fact that she was laid low.
It was rather irritating that Pearly Gates would not acknowledge her power, but talked steadily about the goodness of God and the Blood of the Lamb having power to heal her. It would have been more satisfactory had she been able to persuade Pearly Gates that she, and she alone, had brought this misfortune on her. She had left her with the parting announcement that she would never be any better, no matter what the doctor said—that she, Mam' Peachy, would see to it that she never got out of bed. A day had never passed in all the twenty years that Aunt Pearly Gates had been bedridden that the wretched old black woman had not endeavored to work her spells against the invalid. Not only did she work them, but she saw to it from time to time the news was taken to her victim that she had not forgotten her. Long ago the doctor had ceased his visits to Aunt Pearly Gates. Her case was given up as hopeless.
It was a fly in the ointment that Pearly Gates refused to acknowledge to anyone the fear she had for Mam' Peachy. The one time that she had confessed it to Rebecca was the only weakness she had shown in the twenty years of her invalidism. She had held firmly to her faith in the goodness of God, proclaiming it at all times. Nobody but her faithful Si knew of her dark hours, when belief in Mam' Peachy's evil power got the better of her belief in the all-loving Father's infinite tenderness and mercy. She never openly confessed it even to Si, but sometimes he could hear her praying in the night when she thought he was asleep. He respected her wish for concealment of what both of them considered a disgraceful fear, and the old man would silently pray with her.